: COUNTRY 

EARL H. REED 




Class _Z53a^_ 

Book JlAlJR^a. 
Copyright W „ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

THE VOICES OF THE DUNES 
Quarto Boards $6.00 Net 



ETCHING: 
A PRACTICAL TREATISE 

Crown Quarto Cloth $2.50 Net 





W-' 



THE 
DUNE COUNTRY 



By 
EARL H. REED 



AUTHOR OF 

"THE VOICES OF THE DUNES" 

ETCHING: A PRACTICAL TREATISE' 



WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY THE AUTHOR 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY, MCMXVI 






Copyright, 1916 
By JOHN LANE COMPANY 



PRESS OF 

Eaton & Gettinger 
new york, u. s. a. 



MAR 23 Idl6 



'CIA428284 



To C. C. R. 



INTRODUCTION 

THE text and illustrations in this book are 
intended to depict a strange and pictur- 
esque country, with some of its interesting 
wild life, and a few of the unique human char- 
acters that inhabit it. 

The big ranges of sand dunes that skirt the 
southern and eastern shores of Lake Michigan, 
and the strip of sparsely settled broken country 
back of them, contain a rich fund of material for 
the artist, poet, and nature lover, as well as for 
those who would seek out the oddities of human 
kind in by-paths remote from much travelled 
highways. 

In the following pages are some of the results 
of numerous sketching trips into this region, cov- 
ering a series of years. Much material was 
found that was beyond the reach of the etching 
needle or the lead pencil, but many things seemed 
to come particularly within the province of those 
mediums, and they have both been freely used. 

While many interesting volumes could be filled 
by pencil and pen, this story of the dunes and the 
"back country" has been condensed as much as 
seems consistent with the portrayal of their essen- 
tial characteristics. 



We are lured into the wilds by a natural in- 
stinct. Contact with nature's forms and moods 
is a necessary stimulant to our spiritual and intel- 
lectual life. The untrammelled mind may find 
inspiration and growth in congenial isolation, for 
in it there are no competitive or antagonistic in- 
fluences to divert or destroy its fruitage. 

Comparatively isolated human types are usually 
more interesting, for the reason that individual 
development and natural ruggedness have not been 
rounded and polished by social attrition. 

Social attrition would have ruined "old Sipes,'* 
a part of whose story is in this book, and if it 
had ever been mentioned to him he probably 
would have thought that it was something that 
lived up in the woods that he had never seen. 

Fictitious names have, for various reasons, been 
substituted for some of the characters in the fol- 
lowing chapters. One of the old derelicts objected 
strenuously to the use of his name. "I don't want 
to be in no book," said he. "You can draw all 
the pitchers o' me you want to, an' use 'em, but 
as fer names, there's nothin' doin'." 

"Old Sipes" suggested that if "Doc Looney's 
pitcher was put in a book, some o' them females 
might see it an' locate 'im," but as the "Doc" has 
now disappeared this danger is probably remote. 

E. H. R. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Dune Country 15 



II. The Gulls and Terns 39 

III. The Turtles 47 

IV. The Crows 55 

V. "Old Sipes" 7Z 

VI. "Happy Cal" 97 

VII. "Catfish John" 115 

VIII. "Doc Looney" 149 

IX. The Mysterious Prowler 169 

X. "J. Ledyard Symington" 179 

XL The Back Country 193 

XII. Judge Cassius Blossom 229 

XIII. The Winding River 255 

XIV. The Red Arrow 279 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 




CHAPTER I 
THE DUNE COUNTRY 

WHILE there are immense stretches of 
sand dunes in other parts of the world, 
it is of a particular dune country, to 
which many journeys have been made, and in 
which many days have been spent, that this story 
will be told. 

The dunes sweep for many miles along the 
Lake Michigan coasts. They are post-glacial, 
and are undergoing slow continual changes, both 
in form and place, — the loose sand responding 
lightly to the action of varying winds. 

[15] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The "fixed dunes" retain general forms, more 
or less stable, owing to the scraggly and irregular 
vegetation that has obtained a foothold upon them, 
but the "wandering dunes" move constantly. The 
fine sand is wafted in shimmering veils across the 
smooth expanses, over the ridges to the lee slopes. 
It swirls in soft clouds from the wind-swept sum- 
mits, and, in the course of time, whole forests are 
engulfed. After years of entombment, the dead 
trunks and branches occasionally reappear in the 
path of the destroyer, and bend back with gnarled 
arms in self-defence, seeming to challenge their 
flinty foe to further conflict. 

The general movement is east and southeast, 
owing to the prevalence of west and northwest 
winds in this region, which gather force in com- 
ing over the waters of the lake. The finer grains, 
which are washed up on the beach, are carried 
inland, the coarser particles remaining near the 
shore. The ofif-shore winds, being broken by the 
topography of the country, exercise a less but still 
noticeable influence. The loose masses retreat per- 
ceptibly toward the beach when these winds pre- 
vail for any great length of time. 

[16] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

To many this region simply means a distant line 
of sandy crests, tree-flecked and ragged, against 
the sky on the horizon — a mysterious and unknown 
waste, without commercial value, and therefore 
useless from a utilitarian standpoint. 

It is not the land, but the landscape, not the util- 
ity, but the romantic and interesting wild life 
among these yellow ranges that is of value. It is 
the picturesque and poetic quality that we find in 
this land of enchantment that appeals to us, and 
it is because of this love in our lives that we now 
enter this strange country. 

The landscapes among the dunes are not for the 
realist, not for the cold and discriminating record- 
er of facts, nor the materialist who would weigh 
with exact scales or look with scientific eyes. It 
is a country for the dreamer and the poet, who 
would cherish its secrets, open enchanted locks, 
and explore hidden vistas, which the Spirit of the 
Dunes has kept for those who understand. 

The winds have here fashioned wondrous forms 
with the shuttles of the air and the mutable sands. 
Shadowy fortresses have been reared and bannered 
with the pines. Illusive distant towers are tinged 

[17] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

by the subtle hues of the afterglows, as the twilights 
softly blend them into the glooms. In the fading 
light we may fancy the outlines of frowning castles 
and weird battlements, with ghostly figures along 
their heights. 

If the desert was of concrete, its mystery and 
spiritual power would not exist. The deadly si- 
lences which nature leaves among her ruins are 
appalling, unless brightened by her voices of en- 
during hope. It is then that our spirits revive 
with her. 

There is an unutterable gloom in the hush of 
the rocky immensities, where, in dim ages past, 
the waters have slowly worn away the stony bar- 
riers of the great canyons among the mountains. 
The countless centuries seem to hang over them 
like a pall, when no living green comes forth 
among the stones to nourish the soul with faith 
in life to come. We walk in these profound soli- 
tudes with an irresistible sense of spiritual de- 
pression. 

On Nature's great palette green is the color of 
hope. We see it in the leaves when the miracle 
of the spring unfolds them, and on the ocean's 

[18] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

troubled waters when the sun comes from behind 
the curtains of the sky. Even the tiny mosses 
cover with their mantles the emblems of despair 
when decay begins its subtle work on the fallen 
tree and broken stump. 

We find in the dune country whatever we take 
to it. The repose of the yellow hills, which have 
been sculptured by the winds and the years, re- 
flects the solemnity of our minds, and eternal hope 
is sustained by the expectant life that creeps from 
every fertile crevice. 

While the wandering masses are fascinating, it 
is among the more permanent forms, where na- 
ture has laid her restraining hand, that we find the 
most picturesque material. It is here that the 
reconstructive processes have begun which impart 
life to the waste places. At first, among these 
wastes, one is likely to have a sense of loneliness. 
The long, undulating lines of ridged sand inspire 
thoughts of hopeless melancholy. The sparse veg- 
etation, which in its struggle for life pathetically 
seizes and holds the partially fertile spots among 
these ever-shifting masses, has the appearance of 
broken submission. The wildly tangled roots — 

[19] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

derelicts of the sands — which have been deserted 
and left to bleach in the sun by the slow move- 
ment of the great hills, emphasize the feeling of 



"DERELICTS OF THE SANDS" 



isolation. The changing winds may again give 
them a winding sheet, but as a part of nature's 
refuse, they are slowly and steadily being resolved 
back into her crucible. 

To the colorist the dunes present ever-changing 
panoramas of hue and tone. Every cloud that 
trails its purple, phantom-like shadow across them 

[20] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

can call forth the resources of his palette, and he 
can find inspiration in the high nooks where the 
pines cling to their perilous anchorage. 

The etcher may revel in their wealth of line. 
The harmonic undulations of the long, serrated 
crests, with sharp accents of gnarled roots and 
stunted trees, offer infinite possibilities in compo- 
sition. To the imaginative enthusiast, seeking po- 
etic forms of line expression, these dwarfed, neg- 
lected, crippled, and wasted things become subtle 
units in artistic arrangement. 

As in all landscape, we find much material in 
these subjects that is entirely useless from an ar- 
tistic standpoint. The thoughtful translator must 
be rigidly selective, and his work must go to other 
minds, to which he appeals, stripped of dross and 
unencumbered with superfluities. An ugly and 
ill-arranged mass of light and shade, that may 
disfigure the foreground, may be eliminated from 
the composition, but the graceful and slender weed 
growing near it may be used. A low, dark cloud 
in the distance may be carried a little farther away, 
if necessary, or it may be blown entirely away, if 
another cloud — floating only in the realm of im- 

[21] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

agination — will furnish the desired note of har- 
mony. Truth need not necessarily be fact, but we 
must not include in our composition that which is 
not possible or natural to our subject. Represen- 
tation of fact is not art, in its pure sense, but 




IN THE WILD PLACES 



effective expression of thought, which fact may 
inspire, is art — and there is but one art, although 
there are many mediums. 

One must feel the spirit and poetry of the dunes, 
if he deals with them as an artist who would send 

[22] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

their story into the world. The magic of success- 
ful artistic translation changes the sense of deso- 
lation into an impression of wild, weird beauty and 
romantic charm. It is the wildness, the mystery, 
the deep solemnity, and the infinite grandeur of 
this region which furnish themes of appealing 
picturesqueness. 

Man has changed or destroyed natural scenery 
wherever he has come into practical contact with 
it. The fact that these wonderful hills are left 
to us is simply because he has not yet been able 
to carry away and use the sand of which they are 
composed. He has dragged the pines from their 
storm-scarred tops, and is utilizing their sands for 
the elevation of city railway tracks. Shrieking, 
rasping wheels now pass over them, instead of the 
crow's shadow, the cry of the tern, or the echo of 
waves from glistening and untrampled shores. 

The turmoil and bustle of the outside world is 
not heard on the placid stretches of these quiet 
undulations. Here the weary spirit finds repose 
among elemental forms which the ravages of civil- 
ization have left unspoiled. If we take beautiful 
minds and beautiful hearts into the dune country, 

[23] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

we will find only beauty in it; and if we have not 
the love of beauty, we walk in darkness. 

Filmy veils of white mist gather in the hollows 
during the still, cool hours of the night, and begin 
to move like curling smoke wreaths with the first 
faint breaths of dawn. The early hours of the 
morning are full of strange enchantment, and 
dawn on the dunes brings many wonders. When 
the first gray tones of light appear, the night- 
prowlers seek seclusion, and the stillness is broken 
by the crows. A single note is heard from among 
the boughs of a far-off pine, and in a few moments 
the air is filled with the noisy conversation of these 
interesting birds — mingled with the cries of the 
gulls and terns, which have come in from the lake 
and are searching for the refuse of the night 
waves. The beams of a great light burst through 
the trees — the leaves and the sands are touched 
with gold — and the awakening of the hills has 
come. 

The twilights bring forth manifold beauties 
which the bright glare of the day has kept within 
their hiding-places. The rich purples that have 
been concealed among secret recesses creep out on 

[24] 




{From the A iilhor's Eiihinn) 



DAWN IN THE KILLS 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

the open spaces to meet the silvery light of the 
rising moon, and the colors of the dusk come to 
weave a web of phantasy over the landscape. 
It is then that the movement of nocturnal life 




(From the Author's Etching) 

TWILIGHT ON THE DUNES 

commences and the tragedies of the night begin. 
A fleeting silhouette of a wing intersects the moon's 
disc, and a dark shadowy thing moves swiftly 
across the sky-line of the trees. An attentive 

[26] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

listener will hear many strange and mysterious 
sounds. The Dune People are coming forth to 
seek their food from God. 

When the morning comes, if the air is still, we 




"A p-LEETING SILHOUETTE OF A WING 
INTERSECTS THE MOON'S DISC" 



can find the stories on the sand. Its surface is 
interlaced with thousands of little tracks and trails, 
leading in all directions. The tracks of the toads, 
and the hundreds of creeping insects on which 

[27] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

they subsist, are all over the open places, crossed 
and recrossed many times by the footmarks of 
crows, herons, gulls, sandpipers, and other birds. 

The movement of the four-footed life is mostly 
nocturnal. We find the imprints of the fox, rac- 
coon, mink, muskrat, skunk, white-footed mouse, 
and other quadrupeds, that have been active dur- 
ing the night. To the practiced eye these trails 
are readily distinguishable, and often traces are 
found of a tragedy that has been enacted in the 
darkness. Some confused marks, and a mussy- 
looking spot on the sand, record a brief struggle 
for existence, and perhaps a few mangled remains, 
with some scattered feathers or bits of fur, are 
left to tell the tale. A weak life has gone out to 
support a stronger. 

With the exception of the insects, the mice are 
the most frequent victims. Their hiding-places 
under tufts of grass, old stumps and decayed wood 
are ruthlessly sought out and the little families 
eagerly devoured. The owls glide silently over 
the wastes, searching the deep shadows for the 
small, velvet-footed creatures whose helplessness 

[28] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

renders them easy prey. They are subject to im- 
mutable law and must perish. 

Much of the mysterious lure of the dunes is in 
the magnificent sweep of the great lake along the 
wild shores. Its restless waters are the comple- 
ment of the indolent sands. The distant bands of 
deep blue and green, dappled with dancing white- 
caps, in the vistas through the openings, impart 
vivid color accents to the grays and neutral tones 
of the foregrounds. 

No great mind has ever flowered to its fullness 
that was insensible to the allurements of a large 
body of water. It may be likened to a human 
soul. It is now tempestuous, and now placid. 
Beneath its surface are unknown caverns and 
unsounded depths into which light never goes. If 
by chance some piercing ray should ever reach 
them, wondrous beauty might be revealed. 

The waters of the lake are never perfectly still. 
In calms that seem absolute, a careful eye will 
find at least a slight undulation. 

On quiet days the little waves ripple and lisp 
along the miles of wet sand, and the delicate streaks 
of oscillating foam creep away in a feathery and 

, [29] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

uncertain line, that fades and steals around a dis- 
tant curve in the shore. 

After the storms the long ground-swells roll in 
for days, beating their rhythmic measures, and 




(From the Author's F.ldiing) 



THE SONG OF THE EAST SHORE 



unfolding their snowy veils before them as they 
come. 

The echoes of the roar of the surf among the 
distant dunes pervade them with solemn sound. 
An indefinable spirit of mute resistance and power 

[30] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

broods in the inert masses. They seem to be hold- 
ing back mighty and remote forces that beat upon 
their barriers. 

The color fairies play out on the bosom of the 
lake in the silver radiance of the moon and stars, 
and marvelous tones are spread upon it by the 
sun and clouds. Invisible brushes, charged with 
celestial pigments, seem to sweep over its great 
expanse, mingling prismatic hues and changing, 
them fitfully, in wayward fancy, as a master might 
delight to play with a medium that he had con- 
quered. Fugitive cloud shadows move swiftly over 
areas of turquoise and amethyst. Fleeting irides- 
cent hues revel with the capricious breezes in lov- 
ing companionship. 

When the storm gods lash the lake with whis- 
tling winds, and send their sullen dark array 
through the skies, and the music of the tempest 
blends with song of the surges on the shore, the 
color tones seem to become vocal and to mingle 
their cadences with the voices of the gale. 

We may look from the higher dune tops upon 
panoramas of surpassing splendor. There are 
piles on piles of sandy hills, accented with green 

[31] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

masses and solitary pines. These highways of the 
winds and storms, with their glittering crowns and 
shadowy defiles, sweep into dim perspective. 
Their noble curves become smaller and smaller, 






/J 




(From the Author' s Etching) 



HIGHWAYS OF THE WINDS 



until they are folded away and lost on the hori- 
zon's hazy rim. 

A sinuous ribbon of sunlit beach winds along 
the line of the breakers, and meets the point of 
a misty headland far away. 

[32] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The blue immensity of the lake glistens, and is 
flecked with foam. White plumes are tossing and 
waving along the sky-line. In the foreground lit- 
tle groups of sandpipers are running nimbly along 
the edges of the incoming waves, racing after them 
as they retreat, and lightly taking wing when they 
come too near. There are flocks of stately gulls, 
balancing themselves with set wings, high in the 
wind, and a few terns are skimming along the 
crests. The gray figures of two or three herons 
are stalking about, with much dignity, near some 
driftwood that dots the dry sand farther up the 
shore. 

Colors rare and glorious are in the sky. The 
sun is riding down in a chariot of gold and pur- 
ple, attended by a retinue of clouds in resplendent 
robes. The twilight comes, the picture fades, but 
the spell remains. 

Intrepid voyagers from the Old World jour- 
neyed along these primitive coasts centuries ago. 
Their footprints were soon washed away in the 
surf lines, but the romance of their trails still rests 
upon the sands that they traversed. 

In years of obscure legend, birch-bark canoes 

[33] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

were drawn out on the gleaming beach by red men 
who carried weapons of stone. They hunted and 
fought among the yellow hills. They saw them 
basking under summer suns, and swept by the 
furies of winter storms. From their tops they 
watched the dying glories of the afterglows in the 
western skies. They saw the great lake shimmer 
in still airs, and heard the pounding of remorse- 
less waters in its sterner moods. They who car- 
ried the weapons of stone are gone, and time has 
hidden them in the silence of the past. 

Out in the mysterious depths of the lake are pale 
sandy floors that no eye has ever seen. The mobile 
particles are shifted and eddied into strange shad- 
owy forms by the inconstant and unknown currents 
that flow in the gloom. There are white bones and 
ghostly timbers there which are buried and again 
uncovered. There are dunes under the waters, as 
well as on the shores. Slimy mosses creep along 
their shelving sides and over their pallid tops 
into profound chasms beyond. Finny life moves 
among the subaqueous vegetation that thrives in 
the fertile areas, and out over the smooth wastes, 

[34] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

but this is a world concealed. Our pictures are 
in the air. 

When winter lays its mantle of snow upon the 
country of the dunes the whitened crests loom in 
softened lines. The contours become spectral in 
their chaste robes. Along the frosty summits the 
intricacies of the naked trees and branches, in their 
winter sleep, are woven delicately against the 
moody skies, and the hills, far away, draped in 
their chill raiment, stand in faint relief on the 
gray horizon. The black companies of the crows 
wing across the snow-clad heights in desultory 
flight. 

When the bitter blasts come out of the clouds 
in the north, the light snow scurries over the hoary 
tops into the shelters of the hollows. Out in the 
ice fields on the lake grinding masses heave with 
the angry surges that seek the shore. Crystal 
fragments, shattered and splintered, shine in 
the dim light, far out along the margins of the 
open, turbulent water. Great piles of broken ice 
have been flung along the beach, heaped into be- 
wildering forms by the billows, and a few gulls 

[35] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

skirt the ragged frozen mounds for possible stray 
bits of food. 

The wind and the cold have builded grim ram- 
parts for the sunshine and the April rains to 
conquer. 



[ 36 J 




(From the Author's hulinig) 



'HERALDS OF THE STORM' 



CHAPTER II 
THE GULLS AND TERNS 

THE gulls are a picturesque and interesting 
feature of dune life. These gray and 
white birds, while they do not entirely 
avoid human association, have few of the home- 
like charms of most of our feathered neighbors. 

"Catfish John," the old fisherman with whom I 
often talked about the birds and animals in the 
dune country, had very little use for them. He 
said that "they flopped 'round a whole lot, an' 
seemed to keep a goin'." He "didn't never find 
no eggs, an' they didn't seem to set anywheres. 
They git away with the bait when its left out, an' 
they seem mostly to live ofif'n fish an' dead things 
they find on the beach an' floatin' round in the 
lake. They'll tackle a mouthful big enough to 
choke a horse if they like the looks of it." 

He thought that "them that roosted out on the 
net stakes didn't go to sleep entirely, or they'd slip 
off in the night." 

The gull has many charms for the ornithologist 
and the poet. He is valuable to the artist, as an 

[39] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

accent in the sky, when he is on the wing, giving 
a thrill of life to the most desolate landscape. 

He is interesting to the eye when proudly walk- 
ing along the beach, or sitting silently, with hun- 




"THEM THAT ROOSTED OUT ON THE NET STAKES" 

dreds of others, in solemn conclave on the shore. 
Old piles and floating objects in the lake have an 
added interest with his trim figure perched upon 
them. The perched birds seem magnified and 
ghostly when one comes suddenly upon them in 

[40] 



THE GULLS AND TERNS 

the fog and they disappear with shrill cries into 
the mists. 

There is no gleam of human interest in the eye 
of a gull. It is fierce, cold, and utterly wild. The 
birds we love most are those that nest in the land 
in which we live. The home is the real bond 
among living things, and our feathered friends 
creep easily into our afifections when we can hear 
their love songs and watch their home life. 

The transient winged tribes, that come and go — 
like ships on the sea — and rear their young in 
other lands, arouse our poetic reflections, challenge 
our admiration, and excite our love of the beau- 
tiful. They delight our eyes but not our hearts. 

The graceful forms of the gulls give an ethereal 
note of exaltation to the spirit of the landscape — a 
suggestion of the Infinite — as they soar in long 
curves in the azure blue, or against the dark clouds 
that roll up in portentous masses from the distant 
horizon and sweep across the heavens over the 
great lake. They are the heralds of the storms, 
and a typical expression of life in the skv. 

Their matchless grace on the wing, as they wheel 
in the teeth of the tempest or glide with set pin- 

[41] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

ions in the currents of the angry winds, makes 
them a part of nature's dramas in the heavens — • 
aloof and remote from earthly things — mingling 
with the unseen forces and mysteries of the Great 
Unknown. 

These rovers of the clouds seem to love no abodes 
but the stormy skies and foaming waves. Their 
flights are desultory when the winds are still. 
When the calms brood over the face of the waters, 
they congregate on the glassy surface, like little 
white fleets at anchor, and rest for hours, until 
hunger again takes them into the air. 

They often leave the lake and soar over the 
dune country on windy days, searching far inland 
for food, but when night comes they return to 
the water. 

In early August they come down from the Lake 
Superior country and from the more distant north, 
where perhaps many of them have spent the sum- 
mer near the arctic circle. They bring with them 
their big brown young, from the rocky islands in 
those remote regions, and to these islands they 
will return in the spring. The young birds do not 
don their silver-gray plumage until the second 
year. 

[42] 



THE GULLS AND TERNS 

In the autumn the unseen paths in the sky are 
filled with countless wings on their way to the 
tropics, but the gulls remain to haunt the bare 
landscapes and the chill waters of the lake, until 
the return of the great multitudes of migrant birds 
in April or May, when they leave for their north- 
ern homes. 

In the wake of the gulls come the terns — those 
graceful, gliding little creatures in pearl-gray 
robes — which skim and hover over the waves, and 
search them for their daily food. 

There is something peculiarly elf-like and wispy 
in their flight. Agile and keen eyed, with their 
mosquito-like bills pointed downward, they dart 
furtively, like water-sprites, along the crests of the 
billows, seeming to winnow the foam and spray. 

With low plaintive cries the scattered flocks fol- 
low the surf lines against the wind and the dipping 
wings can be seen far out over the lake. 

They often pause in the air, and drop like plum- 
mets, entirely out of sight under water, in pursuit 
of unsuspecting small fish, to reappear with the 
wiggling tails of the little victims protruding from 
their bills. Many thousands of them patrol the 

[43] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

shores and waters, but they also are transients, and 
soon wing their ways to colder or warmer climes. 

The nature lover finds manifold charms in the 
bird life of the dune country. There are many 
varieties to interest him. While we may endeavor 
to restrict our consideration to the purely artistic 
side of the subject, it would be impossible to define 
a point that would separate the artistic instinct 
from the love of the live things, and of nature 
in general, for there is no such point. One merges 
naturally into the other. 

It is not necessary for a lover of nature to have 
an exact scientific knowledge of all the things 
he sees in order to derive enjoyment from them, 
but a trained observer is more sensitive to the 
poetic influences of nature, has a wider range of 
vision, a greater capacity for appreciation, and is 
more deeply responsive to the subtle harmonies 
than one who is only susceptible to the more ob- 
vious aspects. 

The love of the Little Things which are con- 
cealed from the ordinary eye comes only to one 
who has sought out their hiding-places, and learned 
their ways by tender and long association. Their 

[44] 



THE GULLS AND TERNS 

world and ours is fundamentally the same, and to 
know them is to know ourselves. 

We sometimes cannot tell whether the clear, 
flutelike note from the depths of the ravine comes 
from the thrush or the oriole, but we know that 
the little song has carried us just a little nearer to 
nature's heart than we were before. If we could 
see the singer and learn his name, his silvery tones 
would be still more pure and sweet when he comes 
again. 

The spring songs in the dune country seem to 
exalt and sanctify the forest aisles, and to weave 
a spell out over the open spaces. The still sands 
seem to awaken under the vibrant melodies of the 
choirs among the trees. These sanctuaries are not 
for those who would "shower shot into a singing 
tree," but for him who comes to listen and to wor- 
ship. 

The voices of the dunes are in many keys. The 
cries of the gulls and crows — the melodies of the 
songsters — the wind tones among the trees — the 
roar of the surf on the shore — the soft rustling 
of the loose sands, eddying among the beach grasses 
- — the whirr of startled wings in the ravines — the 

[45] 



'THE DUNE COUNTRYn 

piping of the frogs and little toads in^ the marshy 
spots — the chorus of the katydids and loeusts — the 
prolonged notes of the owls at night-— and many 
other sounds, all blend into the greater song of 
the hills, and become a part of the appeal to our 
higher emotions, in this land of enchantment and 
mystery. 



[46] 




■^ '■ ^ 



CHAPTER III 



THE TURTLES 



SOMETIMES we find interesting little com- 
edies mapped on the sands. 
One morning the July sun had come from 
behind the clouds, after a heavy rain, and quickly 
dried the surface, leaving the firm, wet sand un- 
derneath. On the dunes, walks are particularly 
delightful when the moist, packed sand becomes 
a yellow floor, but it requires much endurance and 

[47] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

enthusiasm to trudge through miles of soft sand 
on a hot day and retain a contemplative mood. 

We suddenly came upon some turtle tracks, be- 
ginning abruptly out on an open space, indicating 
that the traveler had probably withdrawn into the 
privacy and shelter of his mobile castle, and re- 
sumed his journey when the sun appeared. All 
traces of his arrival at the point where the tracks 
began had been obliterated by the rain. 

We were curious to ascertain his objective, and 
as the trail was in perfect condition, we followed 
it carefully for several hundred yards, when we 
found another trail interrupting it obliquely from 
another direction. Within an area of perhaps 
twenty feet in diameter the tracks had left a con- 
fused network on the smooth sand. Evidently 
there had been much discussion and consideration 
before a final decision had been reached. Then 
the trails started off in the same direction, side by 
side, varying from a foot to two feet or so apart. 

There was much mystery in all this. Our curi- 
osity continued, and about half a mile farther on 
the smaller trail of the last comer suddenly veered 
off toward the lake and disappeared in the wet 

[48] 



THE TURTLES 

sand of the beach. The (3riginal trail finally ended 
several hundred yards farther on in a clear stream, 
and there we saw Mr. Hardfinish resting quietly 
on the shallow bottom, with the cool current flow- 
ing over him. 

We may have stumbled on a turtle romance. 
Perhaps a tryst had been kept, and after much 
argument and persuasion the two had decided to 
combine their destinies. It may have been in- 
compatibility of temperament, or afifection grown 
cold, which caused the later estrangement. A 
fickle heart may have throbbed under the shell of 
the faithless amphibian who had joined the ex- 
pedition, but whatever the cause of the separation 
was, the initiator of the journey had been left to 
finish it alone. His trail showed no wavering at 
the point of desertion, and evidently the rhythm 
of his march was not disturbed by it. 

There is much food for reflection in this story 
on the sand. What we call human nature is very 
largely the nature of all animal life, and com- 
munity of interest governs all association. When 
it ceases to exist, the quadruped or biped invari- 
ably seeks isolation. Selfishness is soul solitude. 

[49] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

In the case of the turtles the highly civilized 
divorce courts were not necessary. They simply 
quit. 

The record of the little romance was written 
upon a frail page, which the next wind or shower 
obliterated as completely as time efifaces most of 
the stories of human lives. 

The turtles are persistent wanderers. Their 
trails are found all through the dune country, and 
usually a definite objective seems to be indicated. 
A trail will begin at the margin of a small pond 
back of the hills, and follow practically a direct 
route for a long distance to another pond, often 
over a mile away. Sometimes high eminences in- 
tervene, which are patiently climbed over with- 
out material alteration in the course which the 
mysterious compass under the brown shell has laid 
before it. 

The deserted habitat may have been invaded 
by unwelcome new arrivals and rendered socially 
unattractive. Domestic complications may have 
inspired the pilgrimage, the voyager may have 
decided that he was unappreciated in the com- 
munity in which he lived, or he may have been 

[50] 



THE TURTLES 

excommunicated for unbelief in established turtle 
dogmas. 

The common variegated pond turtle, which is 
the variety most often found among the dunes, is 
a beautiful harmless creature, but his wicked 
cousin, the snapping turtle, is an ugly customer. 
He leads a life of debased villainy, and no justifi- 
cation for his existence has yet been discovered. 
He is a rank outlaw, and the enemy of everything 
within his radius of destruction. His crimes are 
legion, and like the sand-burr, he seems to be one 
of nature's inadvertencies. The mother ducks, 
the frog folk, and all the small life in the sloughs 
dread his sinister bulk and relentless jaws. 

He is a voracious brute, and feeds upon all 
kinds of animal fare. He often attains a weight 
of about forty pounds, and the rough moss cov- 
ered shell of a full grown specimen is sometimes 
fourteen inches long. One of the peculiarities of 
this repulsive wretch is that he strikes at his 
victims much in the same manner as a rattlesnake, 
and with lightning-like rapidity. 

Possibly he was sent into the world to assist 
in enabling us to accentuate our blessings by con- 

[51] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

trast — as some people we occasionally meet un- 
doubtedly were — and it is best to let him abso- 
lutely alone. He is an evil and unclean thing 
and we will pass him by. Lil^e the skunk, he does 
not invite companionship, and has no social charms 
whatever. 

It was not he who helped to play the little 
comedy on the sand. 




SOCIALLY UNATTRACTIVE 



[52] 




'STEADILY WINGING THEIR WAY 
TO THE CHOSEN SPOT" 



CHAPTER IV 
THE CROWS 

OF all the wild life among the dunes, the 
crow is the most active and conspicuous. 
He is ever present in the daytime, and 
his black form seems to be intimately associated 
with nearly every mass and contour in the land- 
scape. 

The artists and the poets can love him, but the 
hand of the prosaic and the philistine is against 
him. His enemies are numberless, and his life is 
one of constant combat and elusion. The owls 
seek him at night, and during the day he meets 
antagonism in many forms. Some ornithologists 
have tried to find justification for the crow, but 
the weight of the testimony is against him. He 
pilfers the eggs and nestlings of the songsters, in- 
vades the newly planted cornfields, and apparently 
abuses every confidence reposed in him. 

He has been known to take his family into fields 
of sprouting potatoes and, when the plants were 
hardly out of the ground, feed its members on the 

[55] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

soft tubers which were used as seed. Even very 
young chickens and ducks enter into his economies. 
He is an inveterate mischiefmaker, and by those 
who fail to see the attractive sides of his character, 
is looked upon as a general nuisance. 

He cannot be considered valuable from a utili- 
tarian point of view, but as a picturesque element 
he possesses many charms. Notwithstanding the 
sins laid at his door, this bird is of absorbing in- 
terest. His genteel insolence, his ability to cope 
with the wiles of his persecutors, and his complete 
self-assurance may well challenge our admiration. 

He takes full charge of the dune country be- 
fore the morning sun appears above the horizon, 
and maintains his vigils until the evening shadows 
relieve him from further responsibility. All of 
the happenings on the sands, and among the pines, 
are subjected to his careful inspection and noisy 
comment. His curiosity is intense, and any un- 
usual object or event will attract his excited scru- 
tiny and an agitated assemblage of his friends. 

Like many people, he is both wise and foolish 
to a surprising degree. He is crafty and circum- 
spect in his methods of obtaining food and avoid- 

[56] 



THE CROWS 

ing most of his enemies, but shows a lack of judg- 
ment when his curiosity is aroused. 

He will approach quite near to a person sitting 
still, but will retreat in great trepidation at the 
slightest movement. An old crow knows the dif- 
ference between a cane and a gun, but a man carry- 
ing a gun can ride a horse much nearer to him 
than he can go on foot. 

In the community life of the crows there is much 
material for study. Their social organization is 
cohesive and effective. It is impossible not to be- 
lieve that they have a limited language. Different 
cries produce different effects among them. They 
undoubtedly communicate with each other. The 
older and wiser crows have qualities of leadership 
which compel or attract the obedience of the sable 
hordes that follow them in long processions 
through the air, to and from the feeding grounds, 
and to the roosting-places at night. 

The cries of the leaders are distinctive, and the 
entire band will wheel and change the direction of 
its flight when the loud signal comes from the 
head of the column. These bands often number 
several thousand birds. 

[57] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

After spending the day in detached groups, they 
gather late in the afternoon, and prepare for the 
flight to the roosting-grounds, which is an affair 




(From the Ajithur's Ekhing) 

NEIGHBORHOOD GOSSIP 

of the utmost importance and ceremony. A single 
scout will come ahead, and after slowly and care- 
fully inspecting the area in the forest where the 
night is usually spent, he returns in the direction 
from which he came. 



[58] 



THE CROWS 

In a few minutes several crows come over the 
same course and apparently verify the conditions. 
These also return, and a little later, perhaps twenty 
or thirty more will appear and fly all over the 
territory under consideration. They go and re- 
port to the main body beyond the hills, and soon 
the horizon becomes black with the oncoming 
phalanxes, steadily winging their way to the chosen 
spot. 

For a long time the sky above it is filled with 
their dark forms, circling and hovering over and 
among the trees. Much uncertainty seems to agi- 
tate them, and there is a great deal of noisy con- 
fusion before even comparative quiet comes. It 
requires about half an hour for them to get com- 
fortably settled after their arrival. Sentinels are 
posted and they maintain a vigilant watch during 
the night. 

I have sat quietly on a log and seen these mul- 
titudes settle into the trees around me in the deep 
woods. Although perfectly motionless, I have 
sometimes been detected by a watchful sentinel. 
His quick, loud note of alarm arouses the entire 
aggregation, and the air is immediately filled with 

[59] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

the turmoil of discordant cries and beating wings. 
Sacred precincts have been invaded, and an enemy 
is within the gates. 

After much anxiety, and shifting of positions, 
confidence seems to be finally restored, and the 
black masses on the bending boughs become quiet. 

A footfall on the dead leaves, the snapping of 
a twig, a suspicious movement among the trees, or 
the hoot of an owl, may alarm the wary watchers 
and start another uproar that will result in com- 
plete desertion of the vicinity of the suspected 
danger. 

When morning comes, various groups visit the 
beach and strut along the shore, drinking and pick- 
ing up stray morsels. Dead fish that have been 
cast in by the waves, and numerous insects crawl- 
ing on the sand, are eagerly devoured. Usually 
before sunrise the crows have started out over the 
country in detached flocks. 

Like all the affairs of the crows, courtship is 
a serious and important matter. The young male 
stretches his wings, struts dramatically, and per- 
forms all kinds of crow feats to attract favorable 
glances from the coy eyes of a black divinity who 

[60] 



THE CROWS 

sits demurely still and waits. After the manner 
of female kind, she will remain obdurate as long 
as supplication continues. She will yield only 
when it ceases. 




uJ 



(From the Author's Etching) 

"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE" 



Several days are spent in the wooing. It often 
has its vicissitudes. The proverbial course of true 
love has its rough spots, for sometimes shiny-coated 
rivals come which are insistent and boisterous. 

[61] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

They refuse to respect a privacy that is much de- 
sired, and create unwelcome disturbances. 

There are battles in the tree-tops that send many 
black feathers down before the fickle beauty makes 
her final decision. She has little love for defeated 
suitors, and her admiration is the spoil of the 
victor when trouble comes. 

When the love-making is over the happy pair 
begin the construction of the nest, which is usually 
composed of broken twigs or small bits of grape 
vine, and lined with moss or dead grass. It is 
generally built about thirty feet from the ground 
among the strong branches in the deep woods. It 
is jealously guarded, and combats with would-be 
intruders are numerous and desperate. The sharp 
bills are effective weapons when the home is at 
stake, and it is a bold invader who would risk con- 
tact with them for the sake of the mottled eggs 
or the tender young in the nest. 

The crow may be a subtle and artful villain, and 
his evil ways may have brought him into disrepute, 
but he has picturesque quality. His black form 
is often an effective accent in composition, and his 

[62] 



THE CROWS 

presence adds character and interest to the waste 
places. 

The black roving flocks impart a peculiar charm 
to the white winter landscapes. The bleak up- 
lands and the solemn trees in the still bare woods 
are enlivened by the dark busy forms. They seem 
undaunted by the cold and but few of them mi- 
grate. During the winter storms they find what 
refuge they can in the seclusion of the hollows 
in the deep woods, and among the heavy foliage 
of the pines. They eke out a precarious livelihood, 
with scanty food and uncertain shelter, until na- 
ture becomes more heedful of their wants and 
again sends the springtime into the world. 

This bird has his own peculiar and special ways 
of living, which are adapted to his own tempera- 
ment and necessities. He is only a crow, and na- 
ture never intended that he should adjust himself 
to the convenience and desires of other forms of 
animal life. He is without ethics or conscience, 
and in this he differs little from the man with a 
gun. 

Some of the most pleasant memories of the dunes 
are clustered around "Billy," a pet crow which re- 

[63] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 



mained with us one summer through the kind- 
ness of a naturalist friend. He was acquired at a 
tender age, a small boy having abstracted him 
from a happy home in an old tree in the deep 
woods. 




(From the Author'' s Etching) 



"BILLV 



His early life was devoted principally to bread 
and milk, hard boiled eggs, bits of meat, and other 
food, with which he had to be constantly supplied. 
A large cage was built for his protection as well 

[64] 



THE CROWS 

as for his confinement, until he could become 
domesticated and strong enough to take care of 
himself. 

He became clamorous at unreasonable morning 
hours, and required constant attention during the 
day. His comical and whimsical ways soon found 
him a place in our afifections, and Billy became a 
member of the family. 

He developed a decided character of his own. 
When he was old enough to fly he was given his 
freedom, which he utilized in his own way. He 
would spend a large part of his time in a nearby 
ravine, studying the problems of crow life, but his 
visits to the house were frequent, and his demands 
insistent when he was hungry. 

He would almost invariably discover the depar- 
ture of any one of us who left the house, flying 
short distances ahead and waiting until he was 
overtaken, or proudly riding on our heads or 
shoulders, if he was not quite sure of the general 
direction of the expedition. 

The berry patch was a great attraction to him, 
and if we took a basket with us he would help 

[65] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

himself to the fruit after it had been picked, much 
preferring to have the picking done for him. 

One of his delights was walking back and forth 
on the hammock. The loose meshes seemed to 
fascinate him, and he would spend much time in 
studying its intricacies and picking at the knots. 
He soon became distantly acquainted with Gip, 
our black cocker spaniel. While no particular 
intimacy developed between them, each seemed to 
understand that the other was a part of the family. 
They finally got to the point where they would 
eat out of the same dish. 

Billy was a delightful companion on many 
sketching trips into the dunes, and it was amusing 
to watch the perplexities of the wild crows when 
my close association with one of their own kind 
was observed. They could not understand the re- 
lationship, and it gave rise to much animated dis- 
cussion. Billy was immediately visited when he 
flew into a tree top, and carefully looked over. 
Other crows joined in the consultations and the 
final verdict was not always favorable, for hostility 
frequently became evident, and poor Billy was 
compelled to leave the tree, often with cruel 

[66] 



THE CROWS 

wounds. He was probably regarded as a heretic 
and a backslider, who had violated all crow tra- 
ditions — a fit subject for ostracism and seclusion 
beyond the pale. 

He promptly responded to my call when he got 
into trouble, or thought it might be lunch-time. 
He would watch with much interest the undoing 
of the sandwiches, and would wait expectantly on 
my knee for the coveted tid-bits which constituted 
his share of the meal. 

When preparations were made for the return, 
Billy's interest in the day's proceedings seemed to 
flag, and he would suddenly disappear, not to be 
seen again until the next morning, when he would 
alight on the rail of the back porch and loudly 
demand his breakfast. 

I was never able to ascertain where he spent a 
great part of his time. His identity was, of course, 
lost when he was with the other crows unless he 
happened to get into a storm center near the house, 
and we only knew him when he was with us. 

He had the elemental love of color, which al- 
ways begins with red, and the vermilion on my 
palette seemed to exercise a spell over him. After 

[67] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

getting his bill into it, he would plume and pick 
his feathers, and I have spent considerable time 
with a rag and benzine in trying to make him 
presentable after he had produced quite good post- 
impressionistic pictures on the feathers of his 
breast. 

Occasionally he would take my pencils or 
brushes into the trees while I was at work, and 
play with them for some time, but would not re- 
turn anything that he had once secured. I often 
had difficulty in recovering lost articles, but usu- 
ally he would accidentally drop them. In such 
cases there would be a race between us, for he 
quickly became jealous of their possession. 

Billy was, to a certain extent, affectionate, and 
would often come to be petted, alighting on my 
outstretched hand and holding his head down 
toward me. When his head feathers were stroked 
gently, low, contented sounds indicated the pleas- 
ure he took in the attention devoted to him. 

Stories of the numerous little tricks and insinu- 
ating ways of this interesting bird could occupy 
many pages, but enough has been told to convey 
an idea of his character. Perhaps he may have 

[68] 



THE CROWS 

been a rascal at heart, but his ancestry was respon- 
sible for his moral shortcomings. 

One morning we missed Billy, and we possibly 
have never seen him since. He may have answered 
"the call of the wild" and joined the black com- 
pany that goes over into the back country in the 
morning and returns to the blufifs at night, or he 
may have fallen a victim to indiscriminating over- 
confidence in mankind — a misfortune that is not 
confined to crows. 

He left tender recollections with us. He had 
an engaging personality, and was a most admirable 
and lovable crow. Such an epitaph would be due 
him if he has departed from life, and a more sin- 
cere tribute could not be ofifered him if he still 
lives. 

During the following year I was able to ap- 
proach quite near to a crow who seemed to show 
slight signs of recognition. A broken pinion in 
his left wing, a reminiscence of a vicious battle 
in the fall, seemed to complete the identification 
of Billy. He appeared to be making his head- 
quarters in the ravine. Further careful observa- 
tion and investigation convinced me that if this 
crow was actually Billy, he had laid three eggs. 

[69] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The name, however, meant much to us, and by 
simply changing its spelling to "Billie," we pre- 
served its pleasant associations. 




A HAPPY HOME 



It was a contented couple whose nest was in the 
gnarled branches in the ravine, where the little 
home was protected from the chill spring winds. 
In due time small, queer-looking heads appeared 

[70] 



THE CROWS 

above the edge of the nest, with widely opened 
bills that clamored continuously for the bits of 
food which the assiduous parents had to supply 
constantly. The nest required much attention. 
Marauding red squirrels, owls, hawks, and other 
enemies had to be kept away from the time the 
first egg was laid until the fledglings were old 
enough to fly. Their first attempts resulted in 
many falls, but they soon became experts, and one 
morning the entire family was gone. 

They probably flew over into the back country, 
where food was more abundant and where they 
were subjected to less observation. 

The nest was never used again. The twigs, little 
pieces of wild grapevine, and moss of which it was 
made, have gradually fallen away during the suc- 
ceeding years, until but a few fragments remain 
in the tree crotch. A red lead pencil was found 
under the tree. Possibly "Billie" may have tucked 
it in among the twigs as a souvenir of former 
ties, or its color may have suggested esthetic adorn- 
ment of a happy home. 



[71] 




'^oi.'p 5iT£S 



A*^^ 




.[,,,,m(t'i-^ 



CHAPTER V 

OLD SIPES 

BEYOND its barren wastes, inland, the dune 
country merges into the fertile soil and 
comes into contact with the highly trained 
selfishness which in this age of iron we call civili- 
zation. The steady waves of such a civilization 
have thrown upon this desolate margin some of 
its human derelicts— men who have failed in the 
strife and who have been cast ashore. Their little 

[73] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

huts of driftwood are scattered here and there at 
long distances from each other, among the depres- 
sions and behind the big masses of sand along the 
shore. 

Their faces wear a dejected look. They walk 
with shambling step, and their bearing is that of 
men who have received heavy blows in their early 
struggles, which have extinguished the light in 
their lives. They are, as a rule, morose and 
taciturn. They have become desocialized, and 
have sullenly sunk into the hermit lives that har- 
monize with the dead and tangled roots which 
the roving sands have left uncovered to bleach 
and decay in the sun and rain. 

They eke out a simple existence with their nets 
and set-lines in the lake, and by shooting and 
trapping the small game which still lives in this 
region. The driftwood supplies them with fuel 
in winter, and occasional wreckage that is washed 
ashore sometimes adds conveniences and com- 
parative luxury to their impoverished abodes. 

The world has gone on without them, and they 
are content to exist in solitudes where time is 
measured by years, rather than by achievement. 

[74] 



OLD SIPES 

Sometimes the bitterness of a broken heart, or 
the story of thwarted hopes, will come to the sur- 
face out of the turbid memories which they carry. 
When their confidence is inspired by sympathetic 
association, they will often turn back some of the 
hidden pages in the stories of their lives, which 
are almost always of vivid interest. 

Feeble flashes will then light up from among 
the dying embers. The story is not the one of 
success that the world loves to hear, but it is 
usually the melodies in the minor keys that touch 
our hearts. Many of the simple narratives, told 
under the roof of driftwood, before the rude scrap 
iron stove, are full of homely philosophy, subtle 
wit, and tragic interest. 

"Old Sipes" was a grotesque character. He w^as 
apparently somewhere in the seventies. He 
had but one eye, his whiskers were scraggly, un- 
equal in distribution, and uncertain as to direction. 
His old faded hat and short gray coat were quite 
the worse for wear, and a few patches on his 
trousers, put on with sail stitches, added a pic- 
turesque nautical quality to his attire. 

He lived in a small driftwood hut, compactly 

[75] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

built, about sixteen feet long, and perhaps ten feet 
wide. A rude bunk was built into one side of 
the single room, and another was placed about 
three feet above it. 

He explained this arrangement of the bunks 
with quite a long story about a friend of his named 
Bill Saunders. It seems that he and Saunders 
had once been shipmates. They had been around 
the world together, and had cruised in many far- 
off waters. A howling gale and a lee shore had 
finally put an inglorious end to the old ship and 
most of the crew^, and left Sipes and Bill on an 
unknown island in the South Pacific. 

His stories of the man-eating sharks and other 
sea monsters which infested these waters, were 
hair-raising, and his descriptions of the wonderful 
natives whom they met, indicated that somewhere 
a race of people exists that the ethnologists have 
never found — and would be much astounded if 
they did. His accounts of man-apes and strange 
reptiles, olive-skinned beauties, and fierce war- 
like men nearly seven feet tall, would have made 
a modern marine novelist pale with envy. 

No ship had ever sailed that was as stanch as 

[76] 



OLD SIPES 

the ''Blue Porpoise/' and no winds had ever blown 
before like those that took away her proud sails 
and ripped the shrouds from her sides. No fish- 
poles had ever bent as her masts did when the 
ropes parted, and no waves had ever soared as 
high as those that broke in her faithful ribs, and 
cast the two shipmates high on the sands of that 
distant island. 

After years of waiting for a friendly sail. Bill 
married into the royal family several times, and 
became a part of the kingdom. Sipes persist- 
ently resisted blandishment for nearly five years, 
when a small cloud of black smoke on the horizon 
gradually grew into a tramp steamer. A boat 
came ashore for fresh water, and our hero gladly 
became a member of the crew, leaving happy Bill 
in the land of luxury and promiscuous matri- 
mony. After a long voyage he was put ashore 
at some gulf port and became a wanderer. 

How he got into the sand hills he didn't exactly 
know, but his idea was to keep as far as possible 
away from salt water. He had developed an an- 
tipathy for it, and felt that the lake would be quite 
sufficient for his future needs. 

[77] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

I asked him how he spent his time, and he said, 
''mostly smokin' an' thinkin' about Bill, an' them 
sirenes, an' their little black an' tan families, 
'way off down there in the South Pacific." 




"THINKIN" ABOUT BILL AN' THEM SIRENES" 



He hoped that Bill would change his mind and 
come back to a decent country. Perhaps Bill 
might find him here, and if he did the extra 
bunk would come in handy. He said that some- 
how he didn't feel so lonesome with the other 
bunk above him, and, at night, he often thought 
that maybe Bill was in it. 

His idea of what constitutes companionship may 

[78] 



OLD SIPES 

appear a little crude to some of us, but after all 
it is our point of view that makes us happy or 
unhappy in this world. 

I asked him if he thought Bill would be able 
to find him if he ever tried to, and he replied, 
"never you mind — you leave that to Bill. He's 
a wonder." 

I regretted that he did not tell me all about 
what happened to Bill after he had left him on 
the island. This would not have been at all im- 
possible if he had taken up the subject with the 
same compositional ability that he applied to the 
rest of his narrative. 

His conversational charms were somewhat 
marred by a slight impediment in his speech, 
which he said had been acquired in trying to pro- 
nounce the names of all the foreign parts he had 
visited. Now that he had got settled down the 
impediment w^as becoming much less troublesome. 

His brawny arms and chest were tattooed with 
fantastic oriental designs — fiery-mouthed dragons, 
coiling snakes in blue and red, and rising suns — 
which he said had been "put on by a Chink" when 
he was ashore for three weeks in Hong Kong. 

[79] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The intricacy and elaborateness of the work in- 
dicated that a large part of the three weeks must 
have been spent with the tattoo expert, for he had 
absorbed much more of Chinese art in the short 
time he had been in contact with it than most 
modern scholars do in a lifetime. 

In answer to a delicate allusion to his missing 
eye, he declared* that it had been blown out in a 
gale somewhere ofif the coast of Japan. The ter- 
rible winds had prevailed for nearly two weeks, 
and his shipmate, Bill Saunders, had lost all of 
his clothes during the blow. The eye had gone 
to leeward and was never recovered. He said it 
was glass anyway, and he never thought much of 
it. How the original eye had been lost he did 
not explain. He wore what he called a ''hatch" 
over the place where the eye ought to be, and 
said that "as long as there was nothin' goin' out," 
he "didn't want nothin' comin' in." 

His "live eye," as he called it, had a wide range 
of expression. It was shrewd and quizzical at 
times, occasionally merry, and often sad. It would 
glitter fiercely when he talked of some of his 
"aversions," or told of wrongs he had suffered. 

[80] 



OLD SIPES 

In his reminiscent moods it would remain half 
closed, and there was a certain far-away look that 
seemed to wander in obscurity- This lone eye was 
the distinguishing feature of a personality that 
seemed to dominate the little world around it. 

I asked this ancient mariner if he had many 
visitors. He replied that the artists bothered him 
some, but outside of that he seldom saw anybody 
" 'cept them I have business with, an' them two 
guys that live about three miles apart down the 
shore, an' the game warden that comes 'long oncet 
in a while. If people commence buttin' in 'ere 
I'm goin' to git out, an' go 'bout forty miles north, 
where I can't hear the cars. I ain't got much to 
move. The stuff'll all go in the boat, an' FU just 
take my ol' flannel collar an' the sock I keep it 
in, an' skip." 

He seemed to feel that he could properly 
criticize most of the people he had met, being 
practically free from frailties himself. Although 
he was somewhat of a pessimist, there was seldom 
much heartfelt bitterness in what he said. His 
mental attitude was usually that of a patronizing 
and indulgent observer. His satirical comments 

[81] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

were generally tempered with unconscious humor. 
He knew that out beyond the margins of the yel- 
low hills lay a world of sin, for he had been in 
it, and his friend Bill was in it now. His philos- 
ophy did not contemplate the possible redemp- 
tion of anybody he had ever met in the dunes, with 
one or two exceptions. He thought that most of 
them were ''headed fer the coals." 

"Happy Cal," was one of his pet aversions, and 
from a human standpoint, he considered him a 
total loss. They had once been friends, but Sipes 
was now "mififed" and there was rancor in his 
heart. Cal had "gone off som'eres," but the wound 
was unhealed. The trouble originated over the 
ownership of a bunch of tangled set-lines, which 
had got loose somewhere out in the lake, and 
drifted ashore some years ago. It was conceded 
that neither of them had owned the lines origi- 
nally, but Cal thought they ought to belong to 
him as he had seen them first. 

Sipes descried the soggy mass and carried it up 
the beach to his shanty. Cal came after the prize 
before daylight the next morning, but found that 
he had been forestalled. Sipes spent two days in 

[82] 



OLD SIPES 

getting the tangles out and had stretched the lines 
out to dry. One night they were mysteriously 
visited and cut to pieces. 
A few days later a piece of board, nailed cross- 



■• ' V 



(^H. 







wise to a stake which was driven into the sand, 
appeared about a mile down the shore, between 
the two shanties. On it was the crude inscrip- 
tion i^*^*^ 7"/?^ Partys that cut them lines is knone/' 
While protesting that he was perfectly inno- 

[83] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

cent, Cal looked upon this as a deadly personal 
affront, and the entente cordiale was forever 
broken. 

After this Sipes bored a small hole in the side 
of his shanty, through which he could secretly 
reconnoiter the landscape in Cal's direction when 
occasion required. He was satisfied that Cal 
would be up to something some day that he would 
catch him at, and thus even the score. 

I had noticed a similar hole in the side of Cal's 
hut, during a day that I had spent with him two 
years before. 

Since the disappearance of Cal the old man had 
used the peep hole to enable him to avoid the visits 
of a certain other individual with whom he had 
become disgusted. Through it he would study 
any distant approaching figure on the shore that 
looked suspicious, with an old brass marine spy 
glass, that he said "had bin on salt water." If 
he was not pleased with his inspection, he would 
quietly slip out on the opposite side and disappear 
until the possible visitor had passed, or had called 
and discovered that Mr. Sipes was not in. He 
referred to his instrument as a "spotter," and 

[84] 



OLD SIPES 

claimed that it saved him a lot of misery. While 
more refined methods of accomplishing such an 
object are often used, none could be more effective. 

After learning what the orifice was for, I always 
felt highly flattered when I found my old friend 
at home, although I sometimes had rather a curi- 
ous sensation, in walking up the shore, feeling 
that far away the single brilliant eye of old Sipes 
might be twinkling at me through the rickety old 
spy glass. Astronomers tell of unseen stars in the 
universe, which are found only with the most 
powerful telescopes. These orbs, isolated in awful 
space, may be scrutinizing our sphere with the 
same curiosity as that behind the little spotter 
in the dim distance on the beach. 

I made a practice of taking a particularly good 
cigar with me on these expeditions, especially for 
Sipes, which may have helped to account for his 
almost invariable presence when I arrived. He 
would accept it with a deprecating smile and a 
low bow. If the weather was pleasant he would 
seat himself outside on the sand, with his back 
against the side of the shanty, and extend his feet 
over the crosspiece of a dilapidated saw-buck 

[85] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

near the door. He would carefully remove the 
paper band from the cigar, light it, and tilt it to 
a high angle. After a few whififs of the fragrant 
weed, he once sententiously remarked, "Say, this 
is the life! — I'd ruther be settin' right 'ere, smok- 
in' this 'ere seega.r, than to be some famous mutt 
commandin' a ship." 

The cigar bands were always scrupulously saved. 
He hoped eventually to get enough of them to 
paste around the edges of a picture which was 
stuck up on his wall opposite the bunks, and was 
willing to smoke all the cigars that might be neces- 
sary to furnish the requisite number of bands for 
this frame, which he thought would "look fine." 
The picture had been taken from the colored 
supplement of some old sporting journal, and 
depicted two prominent pugilists in violent action. 
When he had "cussed out" nearly everybody else, 
he would take up the case of one of these cham- 
pions, who had gone into the ring once too often. 
His ornate vocabulary came into splendid play on 
these occasions, and the unfortunate "pug" had 
no professional reputation left when the old man 
had finished his remarks. 

[86] 



OLD SIPES 

There was an interesting and formidable array 
of armament in Sipes's shanty. In one corner 
stood an old-fashioned muzzle-loading, big bore 
shotgun, weighing about sixteen pounds, with 
rusty barrels and one broken hammer. The stock 
had once been split, but had been carefully re- 
paired and bound with wire. It was a murderous 
looking weapon. 

A heavy rifle of antiquated pattern was sus- 
pended from a couple of hooks above the bunks, 
but the old man explained that this piece of ord- 
nance was "no good," as he "couldn't git no cat- 
ritches that 'ud fit it, an' it 'ad a busted trigger 
an' a bum lock." He had traded some skins for 
it years ago, and "the feller that 'ad it didn't 'ave 
no catritches neither. I was stung in that trade, 
but them skins wasn't worth nothin' neither. 
Some day I'll trade it off to some feller that wants 
a good rifle." 

On the shelf was a sinister looking firearm, 
which had once been a smooth-bore army musket. 
The barrel had been sawed off to within a foot 
of the breech. This he called his "scatter gun." 
It was kept loaded with about six ounces of black 

[87] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

powder, and wadded on top of this was a handful 
of pellets which he had made out of flour dough, 
mixed with red pepper, and dried in the sun. He 
explained that, at three rods, such a charge would 
go just under the skin. "It wouldn't kill nothin', 
but it 'ud be hot stuff." He was keeping it "fer 
a certain purpose," the nature of which he refused 
to divulge. 

The intended destiny of the "hot stuff" was sug- 
gested by a story I afterwards heard from "Catfish 
John." It seems that an eccentric character occa- 
sionally roamed along the beach who was a theo- 
logical fanatic. He had tried to convert Sipes, and 
had often left tracts around the shanty when the 
owner was absent. He was intensely Calvinistic 
and utterly uncompromising in his beliefs. John 
did not consider that he was "quite all thar." 
This unkempt individual projected his red bushy 
whiskers and wild eyes through Sipes' open win- 
dow one night. 

"Do you believe in infant damnation?" he 
roared. 

"Wot?" asked the dumfounded Sipes. 

" 'Cause if ye don't yer jest as sure to go to hell 

[88] 



OLD SIPES 

as the sun is to rise tomorrer mornin','' the intruder 
continued. He then left as suddenly as he had 
come. ''Sipes sailed a pufectly good egg after 'im, 
but it didn't stick," remarked John. 

It was Sipes's custom to take the old shot gun 
over into the marshes of the back country, and 
shoot ducks in the fall and spring. His ideas of 
killing ducks were worthy of the Stone Age, for 
it was meat that he sought, and not sport. He 
always ''killed 'em settin'," and would "lay fer 'em 
'till fifteen er twenty got in a bunch, an' then let 
'em 'ave both bar'ls. 

"I don't allow nobody but me to shoot that gun. 
It kicks like it was drivin' some spiles, an' so does 
my scatter gun. When it goes ofif one end is 
pretty near as bad as the other. I fetch them 
ducks home an' salt down them I can't use right 
off, an' sometimes I git enough to last all winter." 

I suggested that lighter charges might cause less 
recoil, and do just as much execution. 

"Not on yer life," he replied, "if they ain't no 
kick behind they won't be no kick forrads, an' the 
shot won't go no distance. Now just lemme show 
you." 

[89] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

In spite of my protest, he got the gun out, loaded 
it far beyond its maximum efficiency, and fired 
it at a passing flock of sandpipers, that were for- 
tunately beyond range. The report was like a 
thunder clap, and when the echoes died away, and 
it was evident that the innocent little creatures 
had escaped unharmed, he explained that he 
"wasn't any good at shootin' 'em flyin', but them 
shot made 'em skip all right." 

I had my own suspicions as to what had made 
the little birds "skip." 

His supplies of ammunition were obtained for 
him at the general store in the sleepy village by 
his old friend "Catfish John," whose reward con- 
sisted in portions of the bloody spoil from the 
marshes. 

Sipes's shanty would have been a most unpleas- 
ant place to approach if hostility should develop 
inside of it. He "didn't want no monkeyin' 'round 
that joint, an' they wasn't goin' to be none." 

It was to the old man's credit that he let most 
of the wild life alone that he could not utilize. 
The crows, gulls, and herons along the beach did 
not interest him. The songsters and the little 

[90] 



OLD SIPES 

shore birds were exempt on account of their size. 
They required too much ammunition, and it was 
too much trouble to pick them. 

} 




THE DISTURBER IN THE RAVINE 



Occasionally a pair of eagles would soar around 
over the dune country. These he longed to kill, 
but he could never get near enough to them. The 
wary birds were inconsiderate, and "wouldn't 
never light, 'cept away ofif." 

A "hoot'n owd" somewhere in the ravine caused 

[91] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

him many sleepless nights. Its prolonged and 
unearthly cries frequently startled him from 
dreams of his friend Bill off in the South Pacific, 
and he spent many hours prowling softly around 
among the trees in the darkness, trying to locate 
the offender. Probably the owl, in the wisdom of 
his kind, had kept the silent stealthy figure under 
observation, and was careful not to do any hooting 
within shooting distance, — certainly an example 
to be emulated. He usually resumed his lamenta- 
tions when Sipes returned to his shanty. 

The old man had this owl listed as one of his 
bitter enemies, and annihilation awaited the wily 
bird if he ever found it. "One hoot'n owl's too 
dam' many to have 'round," he declared. "This 
critter reminds me o' one night when I was on a 
ship off the coast o' South Ameriky. 

"I was aloft on one o' the yard-arms, an' there 
was a little roll on the sea. I seen some long 
white streaks o' foam comin', about two points 
offen the lee bow, an' there was sumpen that shined 
in the moonlight mixed up in it. It seemed all 
yellow, an' about two hundred feet long, an' it 
flopped up an' down. When it got close, it opened 

[92] 



OLD SIPES 

up a mouth pretty near half as big as the ship, 
an' let out an awful yell. It sounded like a hoot'n 
owl, only ten thousand times louder an' deeper. 
Then it dove down an' went under the ship. The 
sails all shook, an' my blood was froze, so I could- 
n't call out to the feller at the wheel, an' I dropped 
off on to the deck. 

"I never found out what the cussed thing was. 
If rd bin drinkin' very much I'd 'a' thought I had 
the jimmies. The wheel feller said he hadn't 
noticed nothin', but I did all the same, an' Fll 
never fergit it. 

"I had some ter'ble experiences ofif down there 
in that part o' the gorgofy. We sailed fer months 
an' months, an' never seen nothin' but the big 
waves an' the sky. There was a lot o' latitude an' 
longitude, an' me an' Bill used to ofTen wonder, 
when we was roostin' out on the bowsprit smokin' 
at night, what 'ud happen if we butted into one o' 
them lines that's always runnin' up an' down an' 
sideways on them salt water maps. 

"There was ter'ble perils all the time. Some- 
times we'd run among icebergs, an waterspouts, 
an' cyclones, an' we wallered in bilin' seas, an' the 

[93] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

skies was black as yer hat, an' we got lost on the 
ocean a couple o' times, an' we got smashed up 
on that island I told ye about. You bet this lake's 
plenty wet enough fer me, an' I'm goin' to spatter 
'round right 'ere, an' if Bill was only 'ere instid 
o' cavortin' 'round with them South Pacific 
floozies, I'd be all right." 

Some of Sipes's many sea yarns sounded suspi- 
ciously like stories I had read in early youth, but 
I generally gave him the benefit of the doubt, as 
he did not need to be strictly truthful to be enter- 
taining. In one instance he related a thrilling 
tale in which his experiences were practically 
identical with those of the hero in a favorite yel- 
low cove^-ed treasure of years ago. I rather tact- 
lessly called his attention to that fact. He at once 
replied, "Now you see how queer some things git 
'round in this world. / was that feller." 

After that I considered comment hopeless, and 
simply listened. 

Perhaps this lonely philosopher may have solved 
one of the problems of existence that have baffled 
more serious and deeper thinkers. He has per- 
fectly adjusted himself to his environment, and his 

[94] 



OLD SIPES 

life is complete and happy within it. Even his 
many aversions give him more pleasure than 
pain. His memories afford him abundant and 
pleasant society, and he is able, psychologically, 
to import his friend Bill when he needs him. Be- 
yond these things he apparently has no desires. 
To use his own expression, — "the great an' pow'r- 
ful o' the earth 'as got nothin' on me." 

That priceless jewel, contentment, is his, and the 
kindly fates could do little more for one who wore 
a crown. 



[95] 



"*='»*r , 



% 



^A 



' }{f\'9?y C^l^" 




(From the Author's Etching) 

HAPPY CAL'S SHANTY 



CHAPTER VI 

HAPPY CAL 

ONE of the nondescript beach characters 
bears, or did bear, the somewhat decep- 
tive sobriquet of "Happy Cal." His 
little shanty was on the sand about two hundred 
feet from the lake. The grizzled head, the gnarled 
rugged hands, the sinewy but slightly bent figure, 
betokened one who had met tempests on the high- 
ways of life. The deep set gray eyes were with- 
out luster, although they occasionally twinkled 
with quiet humor. 

The slightly retreating chin, which could be 
discerned through the white beard when his pro- 
file was against the light, offered a key to the 

[97] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

frailty of his character. The power of combat 
was not there. He had yielded to the storms. 
He said they called him "Happy Cal" because he 
wasn't happy at all. 

One dreary forenoon, when the black clouds 
piled up over the lake in the northwest and the 
big drops began to come, I went to Cal's shanty 
and was cordially asked to put my sketching out- 
fit behind an old soap-box back of the door. It 
is needless to say that he had acquired this soap- 
box when it was empty. A long cigar and the 
recollection of a former visit put him at his ease. 

The rain increased, and the breakers began to 
roar on the beach. The wind whistled through 
the crevices in the side of the shanty, and Cal 
went out to stuff them with some strips of rotten 
canvas that he had probably picked up along the 
shore. It was quite characteristic of Cal to delay 
this stuffing until stern necessity made it impera- 
tive. 

He came in dripping wet, and asked if I hap- 
pened to have a bottle with me. The stove was 
a metamorphosed hot-water tank. The rusty 
cylinder had been found somewhere among some 

[98] 



HAPPY CAL 

junk years before. He had made an opening in 
the front for the wood, a hole in the bottom pro- 
vided for the draft and the egress of the ashes, 
and a stove pipe, that had seen better days, led 
through a hole in the irregular roof. 

A fire was soon singing in the cylinder, and 
under its genial warmth Happy Cal became 
reminiscent. 

"I've had some mighty strange experiences smce 
I've bin livin' 'ere," he began. "About nine years 
ago they was a shipwreck out 'ere that raised the 
devil with all on board an' with me too. Nobody 
got drownded, but it would 'ave bin a good thing 
if some of 'em had. 

"It was late in November an' nobody 'ad any 
business navigatin' the lake, 'less they 'ad to, 
'cause when it gits to blowin' out 'ere at that time 
o' year, it blows without any trouble at all. A big 
gale come up in the night an' the breakers was 
tearin' away at a great rate, an' they swashed 'most 
up to the shanty. I was settin' up in the bunk 
playin' sollytare, an' wonderin' if the shanty was 
goin' to git busted up, when I thought T heard 
voices. I lit my lantern an' went out to see what 

[99] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

was doin' an' I saw a light a little ways out an' 
heard somebody yellin'. 

"There was a big schooner almost on the shore. 
She was poundin' up an' down on the bottom in 
about five feet o' water. The big rollers was tak- 
in' 'er up an' smashin' 'er down so you could hear 
it a mile. Pretty soon the light went out an' after 
that four o' the wettest fellers y' ever seen came 
pilin' in with the breakers. I grabbed one of 'em 
that was bein' washed back agin', an' after that I 
got another one that seemed to be pretty near dead. 
The other two got out all right by themselves, 
but they was pretty shaky. They helped me git 
the others up to the shanty, an' they was a sight 
o' pity when we got 'em there. 

"I put some more wood in the stove an' gave 
'em all some whisky. They was about a pint left 
in a gallon jug that I got about a week before, 
with some money I got fer a bunch o' rabbits. 
I don't drink much, but I like to keep sumpen in 
the shanty in case somebody should git ship- 
VvTecked, an' it might be me, but I ain't got none 
now. I went on the water wagon about an hour 

[100] 



HAPPY CAL 

ago, an' Tm afraid Fm goin' to fall of¥ if I git 
a chance. 

"Them fellers lapped up the booze like it was 
milk, an' when they found they wasn't any more 
they got mad an' said I was runnin' a temperance 
joint. Then they asked me sarcastic if I had any 
soft drinks, an' I told 'em they'd find plenty out- 
side. I fried 'em some fish an' they et up all 
the crackers I had. Then one of 'em got my pipe 
an' smoked it. 

"They were a tough lot an' when they got all 
dried out an' fed they got to cussin' each other. 
I told 'em if they wanted to fight to git out fer 
I didn't want no scrappin' in the shanty. Then 
two of 'em clinched an' I shoved 'em out doors. 
Then the others went out an' pitched on both of 
'em. After that they all piled inside agin' an' 
over went the stove. In a few minutes the place 
looked like it 'ad bin blowed up. We got the 
stove up after a while, but I lit out up the ravine 
an' stayed there pretty near the rest o' the night, 
waitin' fer a calm in the shanty. Hell was pop- 
pin' down there an' ev'ry minute I was expectin' 
to see the sides fly out. 

[101] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

" 'Long toward mornin' I took a sneak down an' 
peeked in. Them sailors was all settin' in there 
quiet as lambs, playin' cards with my deck an' 
usin' all my matches fer chips. I opened the door 
an' spoke pleasant like to 'em but they told me to 
git out fer the place 'ad changed hands. After 
a while, when they found they couldn't make 
the stove work, they let me in an' we had some 
cofifee." 

There are some visitors who make calls, others 
who come and visit, and still others who make 
visitations. It was not difficult to classify Cal's 
guests as he proceeded with his story. 

"It seems that them devils," continued Cal, 
"had started down the lake with a load o' slabs 
an' some lumber from one o' the saw mills up 
north. One of 'em's name was Burke, an' 'e got 
to scrappin' with the cap'n, a feller named Swan- 
son, about the grub they had on board. The other 
two butted in an' said they wasn't goin' to eat 
no more beans, an' the feller at the wheel headed 
the vessel — the Mud Hen 'er name was — straight 
fer the coast, an' swore 'e'd hold 'er there 'till the 
cap'n 'ud tell where some canned things was that 

[102] 



HAPPY CAL 

'e knew 'e had on board hid, an' a' big jug that 
they seen 'im put on the night before they 
sailed. They was about a mile off shore when the 
wind struck 'em, an' one o' the wheel ropes busted, 
an' before they could git things fixed up they 
blowed in. 

"They was all sore at the cap'n an' the cap'n an' 
the other two was sore at the feller at the wheel, 
an' 'e was sore at the whole bunch fer cussin' 'im, 
an' so when they all got soaked it didn't help 
things any, an' when they got dried out they begun 
beatin' each other up. 

"Olson, the one that 'ad bin pretty near 
drownded, couldn't talk much English, but him 
an' me sort o' took to each other after a couple o' 
days, an' 'e told me all about the doin's on the 
boat. 

"Swanson an' Burke took my gun an' went over 
in the back country an' shot some tame ducks an' 
brought 'em back to the shanty an' wanted me to 
fix 'em up to cook. When I was pickin' 'em on 
the beach the owners come over. They'd heard 
the shots an' they found some tracks an' seen where 
they was some feathers. I told 'em I didn't have 

[103] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

nothin' to do with it, but as I was settin' there 
undressin' the fowls they seemed to think I had, 
an' I had a lot o' trouble fixin' things up. 

"All this time the ol' boat was layin' in the 
shallow water keeled over sideways, an' badly 
busted up. We climbed into 'er an' got out a lot 
o' stuff, an' that bunch was mighty glad to git 
the beans, an' so was I. We found the cap'n's 
jug an' the cans, an' that night things broke loose 
agin, an' they all went on a bat. They went the 
limit an' acted like a lot o' wild Indians. I poured 
about a quart out o' the jug into a bottle an' hid 
it in some bushes, but they got to that, too. I told 
'em I was just tryin' to save it fer 'em till the next 
day, but they got sore about it. They only let me 
have two drinks from the whole jug. 

"The next night they set the ol' wreck afire an' 
lit out. What they done that fer I can't make out. 
After she burnt down to the water, some big comb- 
ers washed 'er up on the beach one night an' you 
can see what's left of 'er stickin' up out there yet. 
They was a lot o' good stuff in that boat fer a nice 
new big cabin fer me, an' I felt awful bad about 
it. I saw the tracks of two of 'em goin' up the 

[104] 






,V:M 






::>A-.i He^ 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

beach, an' the others 'ad gone off In the hills, an' 
I guess they'd 'ad another row. They carried off 
my gun an' my cards, an' I never want to see a 
bunch o' lunatics like that agin. I'd as leave take 
in a lot o' mad dogs as I would them geezers. I 
wish that dam' Swede at the wheel 'ad headed 'is 
ol' tub som'eres else, 'er sunk 'er out in the middle 
'o the lake, instid o' shootin' 'er in 'ere an' fussin' 
me all up. Them fellers'll be about as pop'lar as 
a skunk if they ever come 'round 'ere agin." 

The remains of the poor old "Mud Hen" were 
visible about half a mile down the coast. Her 
charred and broken ribs protruded from the sands 
that had buried her keel, seemingly in mute pro- 
test against final oblivion. The fate that evil com- 
pany brings was hers, but her refuge is now secure. 

Happy Cal had been born and educated in 
a southern city. At twenty he had fallen in love 
with a dark-haired, beautiful, and softly languor- 
ous creature, with dreamy eyes, whose faded and 
worn photograph he produced after a long search 
through the leaves of an old and very dirty book. 
The book, which he also showed me, was rather 
anarchistic in character, and its well-thumbed 

[106] 



HAPPY CAL 

pages may have considerably influenced CaTs lack 
of faith in things in general. 

After the exchange of fervent mutual vows, he 
had shouldered a musket and answered the call 
of the cause that was lost on the battlefields of the 
sixties. 

After many vicissitudes and many months of 
suffering and hardship, poor Cal, in a tattered uni- 
form, found his way back through the mountains 
to the altar on w^hich he had laid his heart. He 
found the raven tresses on the shoulder of another, 
and retreated into the soul darkness from which he 
never emerged. He was only partially conscious 
of the weary miles and aimless wanderings that 
eventually took him into the silence and isolation 
of the sand hills, where he elected to abide in 
secrecy. 

The golden chalice had been dashed from his 
lips — he had drunk of bitter waters. His star had 
fallen, and, like a wounded animal, he had sought 
the solitudes, beyond the arrows that had torn him. 

The sad, lonely years in the little driftwood 
hut had benumbed the cruel memories, but the 
problems of existence brought only partial forget- 

[107] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

fulness. Under the cold northern stars and during 
the winter storms, his seared and tortured soul 
strove for peace, but it came not. 

His sole companion in his exile was a big gray 
and white dog. He had found the poor, half- 
starved, stray creature prowling around in the vi- 
cinity of the hut one night, and had taken him in. 
Community of interest had caused these two atoms 
to coalesce. The dog's name was Pete, and it was 
Pete who was the indirect and innocent cause of 
Cal's final awakening to what he considered a sad 
reality a year or two later. 

Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog, 
that came from somewhere over in the back coun- 
try; and in the final analysis — in which the two 
animals participated — Pete was left in a badly 
mangled condition. 

Cal found him, and happening to be near the 
shanty of a neighbor, several miles from his own 
shack, carried the unfortunate Pete tenderly to 
shelter. 

It was through this neighbor, another hermit, 
with another history, that Cal got interested in a 
pile of old newspapers and magazines which had 

[108] 



HAPPY CAL 

been procured in some way by this isolated tenant 
of the sands, who still maintained a lagging in- 
terest in the affairs of the outside world. 

During Pete's convalescence, Cal found in one 







of these old papers an account of a women's rights 
meeting in his native city, in which his former 
ideal of beauty and loveliness had taken a promi- 
nent part. 

Her picture was in the paper and Cal was dis- 

[109] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

illusioned. The finger of time had touched the 
love of his youth and she was ugly. The tender 
blossom of nineteen was a cactus at fifty. To use 




A Ccicir^. 



ar-p-jrt^ '' 



his own phrase — "she looked like the breakin' up 
of a hard winter." In addition to the picture, the 
report of the proceedings, during which his for- 
mer affinity had violently attacked what Cal con- 
sidered were the sacred prerogatives of the male 

[110] 



HAPPY CAL 

sex, extinguished the last lingering fond impres- 
sion, and the lovely vision vanished. 

He did not believe that women had sufficient in- 
telligence to vote, and the idea of their taking part 
in sage political councils was repugnant to him. 
While he did not vote himself, he said that there 
"was plenty o' men to 'tend to them things, an' 
its foolish to allow women to git mixed up in the 
govament." 

This wise and smug anti-sufifragist thought that 
the female sex "should be allowed to meet, if they 
want to, but they hadn't ought a butt in on things 
that require superior intelligence." 

The newspaper cut had done its awful work on 
Cal, and women's rights had completed the de- 
molition of an ideal that had been cherished 
through the years. His idol had crumbled and 
turned to ashes, and his dog was now the only live 
thing that he considered worthy of afifection. 

The story had in it much pathos, but inter- 
spersed through it was a great deal of picturesque 
profanity, particularly in connection with the idea 
of women casting votes, which had aroused the 
dormant passions of his nature. 

[Ill] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The storm was over. I left him a small supply 
of tobacco, promised to drop in again, and bade 
him good-bye. 

Several days later, in talking with Sipes, I hap- 
pened to mention Cal's sad life history. He 
laughed and said that Cal was a liar. 

"The real facts is 'e lived over in the back coun- 
try fer twenty years, an' 'e was chased into the 
hills by 'is wife an' mother-in-law fer good an' 
sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope 
oncet about some girl 'e was stuck on some'res down 
south. It's all right fer an old cuss like 'im to 
set 'round an' talk, but 'e was just 'avin' dizzy 
dreams, an' you fergit 'em. If 'e'd only tell the 
truth, the way I always do, 'e wouldn't never have 
no trouble, an' folks would 'ave some respect fer 
'im, like they do fer me." 

A year elapsed before I again saw the little 
shanty. The drifting sands had partially covered 
it, and my knock was unanswered. Several boards 
were missing from the roof, and through a wide 
crack I saw that occupation had ceased. The bunk 

[112] 



HAPPY CAL 

was covered with debris. There were some empty 
cans on the tioor and, I am sorry to say, a few 
bottles, but Happy Cal was gone. 

Let us hope that the wave of fortune or mis- 
fortune that took this poor piece of human drift- 
wood on its crest carried him to some far-off, sun- 
kissed, and glorious shore, where there is no po- 
litical equality, and where women have no rights. 

Either he had spent a most pathetic and adven- 
turous life, or he was one of the most delightful 
liars I ever listened to. 



[113] 



X 






MTF/SH tloMf/ 




r,^.^^^n 



G 



CHAPTER VII 
CATFISH JOHN 

|ATFISH JOHN" lived several miles 
farther up the shore. He was nearly 
eighty — at least, so he thought. Rheu- 
matism had interfered with his activities to a con- 
siderable extent, and his net reels on the beach 
were getting a little harder to turn as the years 
rolled on. He considered the invasion of the dune 
country by the newcomers a great misfortune, al- 

[115] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

though he was perfectly content to deal with them 
in a business way. 

''Fifty years ago, when I fust come 'ere," he 
said, "this country was sumpen to live in. There 
was some o' the Injuns 'ere, but they didn't never 
bother nobody. Thar was lots o' game, an' things 
'round 'ere was pretty wild." 

"How did you happen to come here, John?" 
I asked. 

"I come from down East on the Erie Canal, an' 
I traveled out 'ere to see some land a feller was 
tryin' to sell that 'e showed me on some maps 'e 
had. He said it was pretty wet, but it had thou- 
sands o' huckleberry bushes on it, an' the berries 
grew so thick the bushes all bent over with 'em. 

"I didn't 'ave much money, an' I didn't expect 
to pay much out, but I thought I'd come out an' 
take a look at it. I didn't see no huckleberries, 
but it was wet sure 'nough. If I'd 'a' gone on it I'd 
'a' had to gone in a boat an' feel fer the land with a 
pole, an' if I'd wanted to live on it, I'd 'a' had to 
growed some fins. It was a good thing fer that 
feller that he didn't git that thar land onto me 
afore I'd seen it. 

[116] 



CATFISH JOHN 

"After Vd bin 'round 'ere fer a while, I built 
a cabin over on the river, five miles back o' here. 
I got some slabs from the lumber comp'ny that 
was skinnin' out the pine an' robbin' the guvament, 
an' put up a good house. I stayed thar 'bout ten 
years, I guess. 

"One night somebody knocked at the door. I 
opened it, an' thar stood three fellers. I asked 'em 
in, an' we smoked an' talked fer awhile, an' I 
cooked 'em some pork. I had about fifty pounds 
outside in a bar'l, with a cover an' a stone on it. 

"In the mornin' them fellers wanted to go fishin'. 
We w^ent up the river a ways, an' chopped some 
holes in the ice, an' caught a lot o' pick'rel. We 
took 'em to the cabin an' put 'em on the roof to 
keep 'em away from the varmints. In the mornin' 
I got up, an' all that pork an' them fish was gone, 
an' so was them fellers. It's bin forty years that 
I've bin watchin' now, an' I haint never seen them 
fellers since." 

John then relapsed into a reflective silence, and 
shifted his quid of "natural leaf," that was filter- 
ing down through his unkempt whiskers. "Them 
fellers" were preying on his vindictive mind. 

[117] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"What do you do with them pitchers you make?" 
he asked. 

'T just make them for fun." 

'T don't see no fun makin' them things. Thar 
was a feller along 'ere in the spring that used to 
set under an umbreller, when it wasn't rainin'. 
He painted a pitcher o' me, an' then took it aw^ay 
with 'im. It had a lot o' paint on it, an' it was 
all rough. I don't think 'e amounted to much." 

"Did it look like you, John?" 

"I s'pose it did to him; 'e carried it of¥." 

John knew most of the outcasts along the beach 
for many miles. He occasionally visited some of 
them, particularly Sipes, to obtain extra supplies 
of fish, with an old gray horse and a dilapidated 
buggy frame — both of which were also rheumatic. 
On the wheels back of the seat he had mounted a 
big covered box for the fish, which he peddled 
over into the back country. Some of the fish were 
very dead, and the whole box was replete with 
mystery and suspicion. 

"After the second day," he said, "I sometimes 
give 'way them I haint sold." Even at this price, 
some of them were probably quite expensive. 

[118] 



CATFISH JOHN 

Snuggled up against the bluff, near the shanty- 
he lived in, was an odd-looking little structure that 
John used for a smoke-house. When his fish be- 
came a little too passe to permit of ready sales, or, 



THE LITTLE SMOKE HOUSE 



as he expressed it, "too soft," he smoked them. 
Thus disguised, they were again ready for the 
channels of commerce. 

He generally included some smoked fish in his 

[119] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

load when he started out, and usuall}^ it was not 
their first trip. 

While his thrift was commendable, it was al- 
ways best to let the output of that little smoke- 
house severely alone, for its roof, like charity, cov- 
ered a multitude of sins. 

Sipes declared that he always knew when the 
old man "was gittin' ready to smoke fish, if the 
wind was right." 

His nickname had been acquired because of the 
yellow slimy things which he procured from the 
sluggish river, when the storms prevented supplies 
from the lake. A prodigious haul of catfish was 
made from the river one spring by a settler, who 
turned* the catch over to John to peddle on shares. 

"I loaded up them fish, an' I peddled 'em clear 
to the Indianny line. I was gone a week, an' I sold 
'em all. When I got back that feller said 'e hadn't 
never seen no fish peddled like them was." 

I tried to get him to talk about some of the char- 
acters he had met in his travels, but he said he 
"didn't never ask no questions of nobody." Then, 
after a long silence, he remarked, reflectively, "I 

[120] 



CATFISH JOHN 

guess them fellers that stole the pork prob'ly left 
the country." 

Catfish John apparently relied on the heavenly 
rains, when he got caught in them, to keep him 




JOHN'S METHOD OF TAKING A BATH 



clean, and on the golden sunshine that followed 
them to remove the traces of these involuntary and 
infrequent ablutions. 

I doubt if he suspected the existence of soap. 

[121] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Such cleanliness as he possessed must have been in 
his heart, for it was invisible. 

I once asked John to allow me to spend a day 
with him on one of his peddling trips to the vil- 
lage, and he cheerfully consented. 

"I don't git lonesome, but it 'ud be nice to have 
somebody 'long," he said. 

I was to meet him at five o'clock the following 
morning at Sipes's place. I inwardly rebelled at 
the unseemly hour, but those who would derive 
the full measure of enjoyment with Catfish John 
must not be particular about hours. 

I rowed along the shore, and was at the trysting 
place promptly. Fortunately I had a slight cold, 
and was thereby better enabled to resist some of 
the odors that I was likely to encounter during 
the day. 

Sipes was dumfounded when I explained the 
object of the early visit. 

"You cert'nly must be lookin' fer trouble," he 
declared; "if ye want to spend a day like that, 
why don't ye go over an' set quiet 'round 'is smoke- 
house, instid o' bein' bumped along on 'is honey 
cart all day?" 

[122] 



CATFISH JOHN 

The air was still, and the low, gentle swells out 
on the water were opalescent in the early morning 
light. Sipes had just returned from a visit to his 
set-lines and gill-nets, over a mile away in the lake. 
He had started about two o'clock, and his boat on 
the beach contained the slimy merchandise which 
we were to convert into what Sipes called "cash- 
money" during the day. 

We w^nt down to the shore to inspect the catch. 
Numerous flopping tails and other unavailing pro- 
tests against uncongenial environment were evi- 
dent in the boat. There were fifteen or twenty 
whitefish, about a dozen carp, several suckers, and 
a lot of good-sized perch, which had been found in 
the gill-nets. The set-lines had yielded two stur- 
geon, one weighing about thirty-five pounds and 
the other over fifty. These two finny victims dom- 
inated the boat. 

"I swatted 'em when I took 'em in, but they 
seem to be gittin' gay agin," remarked Sipes, as he 
reached for an old axe handle lying near the bow. 
The struggling fish soon became quiet. 

"There comes yer old college friend," he said, 
as he glanced up the beach. The rheumatic horse 

[123] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

was patiently pulling the odd vehicle along the 
shore, near the water line where the sand was firm, 
partially concealing the bent figure with the faded 
slouch hat on the seat behind him. 

"I'd know that ol' hat if I seen it at the South 
Pole," said Sipes. "It turns up in front an' flops 
down behind. It's got some little holes in the 
top, through which some wind blows when 'e's 
wearin' it. He's 'ad it ever since I come on the 
beach, an' that wasn't yisterd'y, neither, an' they 
ain't no other lid that 'ud look right on John, an' 
they ain't nobody else that 'ud wear it fer a min- 
ute. He needn't never be 'fraid that anybody's 
goin' to swipe it, 'specially 'round 'ere." 

After the conventional greetings, flavored with 
much bantering and playful innuendoes by Sipes 
concerning the disreputable society which some 
nice fresh fish were about to get into, the two wor- 
thies weighed the catch, in installments, on some 
steelyards with a tin pan attachment, which were 
kept in the shanty. Sipes made a memorandum 
with a stubby pencil on the inside of the door, 
where his accounts were kept. "I got so dam' many 
things to think of that I can't keep track of 'em 

[124] 



CATFISH JOHN 

'less I jot 'em down," he remarked, as he slowly 
and laboriously inscribed some figures on the 
rough board. 

John had a few fish in his box that he had found 
in his own nets that morning, and a few more that 
Sipes said "didn't look recent" and "must 'ave 
bin caught some time previous." 

The fish that Sipes had brought in were turned 
over to John on a consignment basis. It was their 
custom to divide the proceeds equally. Sipes con- 
sidered that old John was "pufectly honest about 
everythin' but cash-money an' fish." He therefore 
kept "strict 'count o' wot goes out an' wot comes 
back." The inside of the door was covered with 
a maze of hieroglyphics, the complicated records 
of previous transactions. 

"If I wasn't strictly honest at all times," said 
Sipes, confidentially, while John was out of hear- 
ing, "I'd slip some hunks o' lead that I use fer 
sinkers on the set-lines down the gullets o' them 
sturgeon. I can git lead fer six cents a pound an' 
sturgeon is worth twenty. If anybody found the 
hunks they'd think they'd bin eat oflen the lines, 
but of course I wouldn't do nothin' like that; an' 

[125] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

besides, them big fish has to be dressed 'fore 
they're weighed, an' they 'ave to be cut in chunks 
fer small sales. A sturgeon that only weighs about 
six or seven pounds an' don't 'ave to be cut open 
'fore 'e's sold, can swallow a couple o' sinkers 
without hurtin' 'is digestion any." 

After all necessary details had been attended to, 
we climbed into the seat and started. Sipes winked 
at me impressively, and his last words were, "Don't 
you fellers take in no bad money." 

Pie had several ways of opening and closing his 
single eye, which were very different from wink- 
ing it naturally. He would wink with the whole 
side of his face, thereby conveying various subtle 
meanings which words could not express. 

As we departed, the old man, with a final wave 
of his hand, disappeared into his shanty to prepare 
his breakfast. John had brought him a few fresh 
eggs, and Sipes hoped that "they wouldn't hatch 
'fore they got to the kittle." 

The poor old horse had rather a hard time pull- 
ing the additional burden through the sand. This 
interesting animal was quite a character. He was 
somewhere in the early twenties, and his name was 

[126] 



CATFISH JOHN 

"Napoleon." John had bought him from a far- 
mer for ten dollars. The horse was sick and not 
expected to live, but it transpired that what he 
really needed was a long rest. This he was in a 
fair way of getting when John came to look at 
him. 




/ . 



^Y 



Jx^?.;-)CdOK 



The old fisherman built a little shanty for him, 
put a lot of dead leaves and straw into it, fed him 
well, and in the course of a few weeks the patient 
began to evince an interest in his surroundings. 
"Doc" Looney came over to see him and volun- 

[127] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

teered to prescribe, but John refused to permit 
Doc to give anything but an opinion. Sipes 
claimed that John had thereby greatly safeguarded 
the original investment. 

"If Doc vs^ouldn't give patients nothin' but opin- 
ions, most of 'em would pull through, but 'is opin- 
ions'll make me sick even when I'm well," Sipes 
declared. 

Napoleon was finally able to get into the har- 
ness that was constructed for him out of various 
straps and odds and ends of other harnesses that 
John had picked up around the country. Several 
pieces of rope and frayed clothes-line were also 
utilized, and when it was all assembled it was 
quite an effective harness. 

The convalescent was taken only on short trips 
at first, but he gradually became stronger, and, 
with the exception of a limp in his left foreleg, 
he got along very well. His speed was not great. 
He walked most of the time, but occasionally 
broke into a peculiar trot that was not quite as fast 
as his walk. His trotting was mostly up and down. 
Like many people, whom we all know, he was in- 
clined to mistake motion for progress. He was 

[128] 



CATFISH JOHN 

more successful when he recognized his limita- 
tions, and adhered strictly to the method of loco- 
motion to which he was naturally adapted. 

His intelligence might be called selective. He 
understood "Whoa!" perfectly, and obeyed it in- 
stantly, but "Giddap!" was not quite so clear to 
him. He could not talk about his rheumatic leg, 
and thus suffered from one great disadvantage that 
made him more agreeable to those around him. 

I asked John how the horse happened to be 
called Napoleon, but he did not know. He was 
equally ignorant concerning the animal's eminent 
blood-stained namesake. He thought he "was 
some fightin' feller in Europe," but did not know 
"which side 'e was on." 

The world execrates its petty criminals, and im- 
mortalizes its great malefactors. As Napoleon, for 
selfish ends, caused the destruction of countless 
lives, instead of one, his glory should reach even 
unto Catfish John. 

If the poor little horse had been called "Rem- 
brandt" or "Shakespeare," the name would have 
been just as heavy for him to bear, but it would 
suggest good instead of evil to enlightened minds. 

[129] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

He was, however, oblivious to all these things, and 
went on his humble way, thinking probably only 
of his oats and the queer smells that emanated 
from the fish-box. 

We proceeded about half a mile along the shore, 
and took the road that led through the sand hills 
into the back country. When we got to the marshy 
strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for 
quite a distance, but the road became better when 
we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived 
on firm soil. Napoleon stopped. A fat man 
with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along 
the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a 
mile away, and the horse probably surmised that 
his coming was in some way connected with a 
rest. 

The fat man was a picturesque figure, and we 
watched his progress with interest. His embon- 
point was rendered more conspicuous by the legs 
of his breeches, which were about twice as large 
and not as long as appeared to be necessary. The 
wide ends flapped to and fro about nine inches 
above his feet as he ambled along. The garment 
was ridiculous simply because it did not happen 

[130] 



CATFISH JOHN 

to be "in style" at the time. A faint and mys- 
terious whisper from the unknown gods who 
dictate the absurdities in human attire would im- 
mediately invest its masses and contours with ele- 
gance and propriety, and those we now wear would 
appear as outrageous, artistically, as they really 
are. The freaks of vanity are the mockeries of 
art. 

"Them are high-water pants all right, an' some 
day Fm goin' to have some like 'em," remarked 
John. 

It might be suggested that "trousers" are 
breeches which are in style, and "pants" are those 
which are not. Gentlemen wear trousers and 
"gents" wear "pants." 

"That oT feller lives in that brown house over 
in the clearin' yonder," said John. "His name is 
Dan'l Smith. He's got two sons, an' them an' 'is 
\vife do all the work now, an' 'e's got fat settin' 
'round an' eatin' everythin' in sight. He trots over 
'ere when 'e sees me comin' an' gits fish. He's 
partic'lar 'bout 'em bein' fresh, an' 'e likes to git 
'em when I first start out. He's a good customer, 
but 'e owes me a lot o' money. He says 'e's got 

[131] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

some money comin' from a patent he's inventin', 
an' I'll have to wait awhile. This patent's to keep 
flies offen cows when they're bein' milked, but I 
ain't never seen it work. He drawed it all out on 
some paper oncet, to show me, but I don't know 
nothin' 'bout patents, an' I couldn't see just how 
it went. It's some kind o' thing with little oars 
on it that 'e winds up an' fastens on 'em, an' then 
it goes 'round an' 'round. The little oars are all 
sticky with some goo 'e puts on 'em, an' the flies 
that don't go 'way, when the little oars come 
'round, git stuck on 'em, an' can't git ofif. The 
contraption's got some guide sticks on behind, an' 
when the cows switch their tails, they have to 
switch 'em back'ards an' forrads, instid o' side- 
ways. There's some parts of it that 'e's keepin' 
secret, so's none o' them fellers down to the store'll 
git the patent fust." 

"Good mornin', Dan'l!" said John cheerily, as 
the fat man came up, much out of breath; "did 
ye have a hard time gittin' through?" 

"I got through all right, but it's a good ways 
over 'ere from the house, an' I ain't as frisky as I 
was oncet, an' I'm 'fraid I'm gittin' a little rheu- 

[132] 



CATFISH JOHN 

maticks in my legs. Wotcher got in th' box to- 
day?" 

Old John patiently sorted over the fish for in- 
spection. The fat man selected four, which he 
carefully put in his green basket, and covered w^ith 
leaves. He then waddled away with them and we 
drove on. 

"I don't never keep no 'counts," said John, "but 
Dan'l's got all them fish marked down som'ers, 
that 'e's got from me, an' keeps track of 'em. 
When 'e gits 'is money fer 'is patent 'e's goin' to 
fix it all up. Sipes says we can git slews o' them 
kind o' customers, an' 'e wants me to quit givin' 
'im fish er else feed 'im on smoked ones fer awhile. 
He says if we try to fat up all the fellers we meet 
on the road, the fish'll all be gone out o' the lake 
'fore we're through, an' 'e don't want to be in 
on it." 

While Napoleon and I may have regarded the 
fat man and the green basket with some suspicion, 
John's faith seemed secure. 

We approached a weather-beaten house stand- 
ing near the road. A middle-aged woman in a 
gingham dress and brown shawl stood near the 

[133] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

fence. The nondescript rig had been seen coming. 
Travelers on the road in the back country are so 
rare that a passing vehicle is an event; it is al- 
ways observed, and its mission thoroughly under- 
stood, if possible. In no case during the day were 
we compelled to announce our arrival. 

"Got any live ones this mornin', John?" she 
asked. 

"Anythin' ye like," he replied, as he raised the 
lid of the box. A bargain was soon struck, and 
actual commerce had commenced. John put 
eighteen cents into a big, greasy, leather pouch, 
the opening of which was gathered with an old 
shoestring. He carried it in his side pocket. 

He then gave the lines a shake, said "Giddap!" 
to Napoleon, and we moved slowly on. 

"That thar woman," said he, "has bin married 
to two fellers. The fust feller died right away, 
an' the last one skipped off som'eres an' never 
come back. She's got that little place an' 'er 
father's livin' thar with 'er. He's got money in 
the bank som'eres. He didn't like neither o' them 
husbands, an' now they're gone' e's' livin' 'ere. 
She's a nice woman, but she made it hot fer them 

[134] 



CATFISH JOHN 

fellers, an' if she'll quit gittin' married she'll be 
all right. That house we're comin' to now b'longs 
to ol' Jedge Blossom. He's a slick one. I had 
some trouble with some fellers oncet, an' went to 
the Jedge's house to have 'im haul 'em into court 
over to the county seat. We got beat in the case 
an' them fellers got discharged by the court, but 
the Jedge said I owed 'im ten dollars. I didn't 
have no ten dollars to spare, but I told 'im I'd 
leave 'im a fish whenever I went by, so I must 
drop one off when we git thar." 

We stopped in front of the house. The old man 
reached back into the box and pulled the slippery 
inmates over until he got hold of two that were 
near the bottom. When they came up they did 
not look quite as attractive as those I had seen in 
the boat. He climbed slowly and painfully down 
and carried them around to the back door. On 
his return he remarked that "them fish ain't so 
awful good, but they're a dam' sight better'n some 
o' the law that ol' bunch o' whiskers ladled out fer 
me over to the county seat. I never see 'im 'cept 
at the store when I go thar. The Jedge's got a 
turrible thirst, an' most always 'e's soused. I 

[135] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

gen'rally take the fish 'round an' give 'em to the 
housekeeper, er else leave 'em near the pump." 

With another "Giddapl" we continued our 
journey. 

About a quarter of a mile farther on we met a 
little cross-eyed man with stubby whiskers, carry- 
ing a big stifif satchel covered with shiny black 
oilcloth. It did not seem very heavy. He swung 
it lightly back and forth as he walked. He stopped 
and asked if we could direct him to "Sam Peters's 
place." He explained that Peters was a relative 
of his and that he had come to visit him. John 
told him that he had passed the cross road that led 
to his destination, and ofifered to give him a ride 
back to it, if he would sit up on the fish-box. The 
traveler gratefully accepted the invitation. When 
we came to the corner where the cross-eyed man 
was to leave us, he said that he "would like to buy 
a couple o' fish, an' take 'em over to Peters fer a 
present." 

Evidently he desired in this way to repay John 
for his ride; and thirty cents dropped into the 
capacious maw of the greasy pouch. 

The fish were wrapped up in a piece of news- 

[136] 



CATFISH JOHN 

paper, and the cross-eyed man cautiously opened 
the satchel on the ground to insert the package. 
To our great astonishment a large maltese cat 
jumped out, ran a few yards, stopped, and gazed 
back at us with a scared look. 

The cross-eyed man was much excited, but 
finally succeeded in capturing the animal. He 
then explained that it belonged to his mother-in- 
law. It "yowled so much nights" that after try- 
ing various other expedients, he concluded to carry 
it away and give it to Peters, who had once told 
him that he was fond of cats. He had got ofif at 
the railroad station, about six miles away, and had 
walked the rest of the way. 

The cat and the package were soon safely en- 
closed and he started ofT down the road. 

"That cat'U prob'ly eat them fish up on the way 
to Peters' place," said John, "but it's my business 
to sell 'em an' not to say what's done with 'em 
afterwards." 

The cross-eyed man must also have had misgiv- 
ings as to the security of the fish, for we saw him 
stop in the distance, and open the satchel, probably 

[137] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

with a view of separating the contents while it was 
still possible. 

'T ain't goin' to stop at the next place," said 
John. "When I drive in thar the feller always 
comes out an' jaws about half an hour, an' then 
sometimes don't buy nothin'. When I go on bv, 
if 'e wants a fish, 'e comes out an' yells fer me to 
stop. When 'e gits the fish 'is wife hollers fer 
'im to hustle up an' fetch it to the house, out o' 
the sun, so I git away, an' thar ain't no time 
wasted." 

The old man's acumen in this case resulted in the 
enrichment of the greasy pouch to the extent of 
twenty-five cents, without objectionable delay in 
the day's business. 

We were now getting into the sleepy village, 
and the houses were nearer together. We stopped 
at several of them before we arrived at the gen- 
eral store. The male population was lined up in 
chairs on the platform under the awning, and a 
curious assortment of horses and vehicles stood 
around in the neighborhood. 

None of the horses looked as though they would 

[138] 



CATFISH JOHN 

run away if they were not tied, but all of them 
were securely fastened to hitching rails and posts. 

We had a number of things to attend to at the 
store. A poor old gray-haired woman, who lived 
alone at the edge of the village, had requested 
John to '^please see if there is a letter for me 
when you stop at the post office, and bring it to 
me on your way back, if there is one." 

John had presented her with a fish, and said 
that he always gave her one when he went by, 
when he had a good supply. 

"She's bin expectin' that letter fer nearly twenty 
years, from 'er son that went away, but it don't 
never come. She's always waitin' at the gate, when 
I go back, to see if I git it." 

Alas, how many forlorn ones there are who wait, 
with hearts that ache, through the lonesome years, 
for letters that "don't never come!" Those who 
have gone may have wandered far in the world — 
they may have forgotten, or their fingers may have 
become cold and still, but there is hope in one 
heart that only ends with life itself. A pen may 
sometimes tremble, lips may sometimes falter, and 
eyes become dim, when the thought comes that 

[139] 



THE DUXE COUNTRY 

a mother's love will be "waitin' at the gate" when 
the other loves in this world are dead. 

We tied Napoleon tightly with a big piece 
of rope w^hich it would be utterly impossible for 





"WAITIN" AT THE GATE" 

him to break if he should attempt to run away, 
fixed a small bag of oats so that he could munch 
them, and went over to the platform. 

John was greeted with solemn nods, good-na- 

[140] 



CATFISH JOHN 

tured sallies, in which there was more or less wit — 
generally less — and various questions about "the 
fishin\" One old fellow had "bin over to the 
river" and "seen a feller with a couple o' catfish 
an' a pickVel, but 'eM bin all day gittin' 'em, an' 
'e didn't need no wheelbarrow to git 'em home." 

We went inside the store to make a few pur- 
chases, and to inquire for any mail which we might 
be able to leave with people who lived on the re- 
turn route. 

John bought several pounds of number six shot, 
three dozen heavy lead sinkers, and a pound of 
"natural leaf" for Sipes, and two pounds of 
natural leaf for himself. I was tempted to 
purchase a few cakes of soap and present them 
to John as a souvenir of the trip, but remember- 
ing that it is the tactless people on this mundane 
sphere that have most of the trouble, I changed my 
mind and purchased a big briar pipe for him. 
He was greatly pleased with it, and thought that 
"in about six months smokin' it 'ud git mellered 
up an' be a dam' fine pipe." We bought some 
crackers, cheese and a can of sardines for our 
lunch, which we ate out under one of the trees. 

[141] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

''I don't know what Sipes has to 'ave so many 
sinkers fer," remarked John. He wants me to git 
'im a whole lot ev'ry time I come to town. I 
guess 'e must use 'em fer bait, fer I ofifen find 'em 
in 'is fish when I dress 'em." 

The expression on the old man's face conveyed 
a suspicion that he was not quite as gullible as 
he might be, and that Sipes's strategy had not en- 
tirely deceived him. He probably had his own 
quiet way of adjusting matters on an equitable 
basis. 

After lunch we spent a few minutes more with 
the wise ones in front of the store, deposited our 
parcels under the seat, released the reluctant horse 
and departed. 

"Them fellers that set 'round that store don't 
'ave nothin' else to do," said John. "They set 
inside in the winter time an' do a lot o' talkin', 
an' sometimes I set with 'em just to hear what's 
goin' on. When it's hot they set outside an' count 
the clouds, but they're always settin', an' they don't 
never hatch nothin'. Ev'ry year one or two of 
'em drops off, an' thar ain't many of 'em left to 
what thar was ten years ago. They didn't none 

[142] 



CATFISH JOHN 

of 'em amount to much, but I guess they're just 

as well off now as anybody else that's dead." 

The contents of the greasy pouch had been sadly 
depleted at the store, but we got more "cash- 
money" from the few remaining houses in the 
village. The miller took three fish, and credited 
John's account with the amount of the sale. There 
was a debit on his books against John for flour and 
meal furnished during the winter. 

It was getting late in the afternoon, and it was 
a long way to John's smoke-house, where the un- 
sold portion of the stock must be "dressed an' 
put in pickle," preparatory to smoking it. 

We returned by the same route as we came. 
The poor old woman was "waitin' at the gate," 
and turned sadly toward the house as we passed. 
She carried her cross in silence, and the picture 
was pathetic. 

On the way back we saw a sharp-featured man 
with red hair, who had come out of a house and 
was waiting near the road. 

"That feller," declared John, as we approached 
the possible purchaser, "gives me pains. He seen 
me goin' by all right this mornin', but 'e didn't 

[143] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

come out. He's a tight wad, an' 'e thinks I'll sell 
'im fish fer almost nothin' before I'll tote 'em back. 
Fve got 'em all trained but 'im. Now you just 
watch me." 

When we stopped the man asked if we had "any 
cheap bargains in fresh fish." 

"Yes," said John, "I have, an' I'll tell ye what 
I'll do. I hain't sold many to-day, an' I've got 
about twenty left. If you'll take the whole bunch, 
you can have 'em fer a dollar an' a half." 

"I can use two of 'em, at ten cents apiece, if 
you'll let me pick 'em out," the man replied. 

"Giddap!" said John, and we were once more 
on our way. 

Pride is the most expensive thing in the world, 
and under various forms it dominates mankind. 
I could not help but admire John's resolute sacri- 
fice of this opportunity to add twenty cents in 
"cash-money" to the greasy pouch, which sorely 
needed it, but evidently he was following a policy 
that had in it much wisdom. 

After crossing the marshy strip, we went 
through the sand hills, and down the beach to 
Sipes's place, where I had left my boat. 

[144] 



CATFISH JOHN 

We found him peacefully smoking out in front 
of his shanty, apparently without a care in the 
world. 

John showed Sipes the fish he had brought back, 
and gave him the things he had bought for him 
at the store. When the account was all figured 
out, there was a balance of twelve cents in John's 
favor, which Sipes said "we'll make up next time." 
He was deeply disappointed that there was no 
'^cash-money" coming. 

Sipes considered the fish that were to go to the 
smoke-house "a dead loss, an' they'd soon be 
worse'n that." He wanted "nothin' to do with 'em 
after they struck the morgue." He looked upon 
the smoke-house as a sink of iniquity, from which 
nothing good could possibly emanate. 

I thanked John for his kindness in taking me 
with him, and bade him good-bye. He and Na- 
poleon departed, and soon faded away in the dis- 
tance. 

The old fisherman had retailed a great deal of 
the current gossip of the country to me during 
the day. Humor and pathos, happiness and mis- 
ery, honesty and wickedness, and all the other ele- 

[145] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

ments that enter into the stories of human lives, 
found their places in the day's recital. The old 
man has much benevolence in his heart. Most of 
his comments upon the frailties of his fellow-crea- 
tures were tolerant and charitable. They were 
usually tempered with sly quips, and a disposition 
to accord the benefit of doubt. 

He frequently gives away fish, on his various 
trips, to people who cannot afiford to buy them 
and to whom the food is most welcome, and ex- 
tends credit to others who he knows can never pay. 
He does all kinds of little errands that his routes 
make possible, and altogether he is a simple, good- 
natured soul. 

Like everybody else, he is an infinitesimal item 
in the scheme of creation, but there are many other 
items that are much more objectionable than Cat- 
fish John. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, 
but it is often associated with cussedness, so we can 
safely leave the matter of John's redemption to 
other agencies than soap. 

Sipes once wisely remarked that "it's no use 
tryin' to tell ev'rybody wot to do all the time, 
an' I've quit. If ev'ry feller'd mind 'is own busi- 

[146] 



CATFISH JOHN 

ness instid o' butt'n in an' tryin' to boss ev'rybody 
else, there'd be a lot less fussin' goin' on. The 
only way to git John clean 'ud be to burn 'im, an' 
they's a lot o' clean-lookin' people that'll come 
to that long 'fore he does. He's a nice ol' feller." 



[147] 









,/' 



/ 



) '' 

JhjL Loon c^ 



CHAPTER VIII 
DOC LOONEY 

ANOTHER nondescript, whom I occa- 
sionally met prowling around among the 
hills and along the beach, was known as 
"Doc Looney." Catfish John said he was a "yarb 
man/' and that he had been to see him sometimes 
when he "felt bad." 

Doc seemed to have no fixed abode, and 
seemed disinclined to talk about one. He had 
rather a moth-eaten appearance, and wore an old 
pair of smoke-colored spectacles. He spent a great 
deal of time around the edges of the little marshes, 
back of the hills, looking for some particular "po- 
tential plant," which he was never able to find. 

He gave me an interesting account of Catfish 
John's case, and said he hoped to operate on him 
in the spring if he didn't improve. His theory 
was that the knee-joints had lost the "essential oils" 
that nature had used for lubrication, and that re- 
inforcements were needed. He intended to "make 
a cut" in the side of the left knee, and "squirt some 

[149] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

animal oil into it." If this worked, he would 
"oil up the other leg later." 

The consent of the intended victim of this ex- 
perimental surgery had not yet been obtained. 

He had tried smart-weed tea, slippery elm, and 
snake-root on John, internally, and fish oil and 
rat musk externally, without being able to make 
him stop complaining. The smart-weed was to 
furnish the compound with the necessary "punch." 
The slippery elm was a "possible interior lubri- 
cant," and the snake-root was designed to impart 
the desired "sinuousness and mobility" to the af- 
fected joints. The fish oil, applied to the outside, 
was also to provide possible lubrication, and the 
addition of the rat musk was intended "to drive 
it in." 

Before resorting to the operation, he was willing 
to try the mysterious herb that he had been looking 
for all summer. Possibly this might fix John up 
all right if he wouldn't consent to the operation. 
Doc hoped, however, that the operation could be 
arranged, as he had "never performed one on a leg, 
and would like to try it." 

He believed that everybody, even when the 

[150] 



DOC LOONEY 

general health was good, should "take some pow- 
erful remedy occasionally. It would explore the 
system for imperfections, find disease in unsus- 
pected localities, and probably eradicate it before 
it had a chance to form. Whatever the remedy 
was good for would be headed off and it was best 
to take no chances." He thought that the medi- 
cine used "should have some bromide in it." He 
did not know exactly what the bromide did, but 
"anyway its a dam' good chemical, and it ought 
to be used whenever possible." 

He had what he called a "spring medicine" 
which I could have for half a dollar. He stated 
that the compound contained "ten different and 
distinct sovereign remedies and the bottle must 
be kept securely corked." The remedies were all 
"secret," and "seven of them were very powerful." 
He had known of cases "in which a few doses had 
destroyed two or three diseases at once, and had 
undoubtedly prevented others." Used externally, 
it "made an excellent liniment for bruises and 
sprains." It was also "good to rub on eruptions 
of any kind." 

He thought that a little whisky might help a 

[151] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

patient of his if he could get it to him that after- 
noon, and asked if I "happened to carry any." He 
suggested that I bring some the next time I "hap- 
pened along, as it might be very useful." He 
seldom used it himself, except when he had "stum- 
mick cramps," but these were "likely to come on 
'most any time" — in fact he had had quite a severe 
attack about an hour before, and this was what 
had reminded him of it. 

He told me a long story about his matrimonial 
troubles. He had been married twice, to unap- 
preciative mates. To use his own expression, he 
had been "fired" in both instances, but they were 
now trying to find him again. He was a much 
abused man. He had been badly "stung," and 
was now "hostile toward all females." He did 
not intend to get caught in their toils again — and 
probably there is not much danger that he will be. 

My private sympathies were entirely with these 
unknown irate women who had resorted to the 
radical methods of which Doc complained. 

He had met with some very difficult cases dur- 
ing the past few years. Some of them "presented 
symptoms which had never been heard of before." 

[152] 



DOC LOONEY 

In such cases it was his custom to give the patient 
''a certain solution that would produce convul- 
sions," and, as he was "particularly strong on con- 
vulsions," he was usually "able to cure these in a 
short time." When the convulsions stopped, the 
unknown symptoms would usually disappear. 

He had endeavored several times to get Cat- 
fish John to try this method, "but for some reason 
he didn't want to do it." His fees in John's case 
had consisted of the entree of the smoke-house that 
contained the fish which had become too dead to 
be peddled. He did not think much of the fish, 
but declared that he had got a large one there 
the week before, "an' some of it was all right." 

Sipes once suggested to John that he smoke 
some fish " 'specially fer the Doc," and if he was 
not willing to do it, he would come up some day 
and do it himself. He would "smoke some that 
'ud finish the Doc in a few hours." John objected 
to this and thought that the "Doc ought to have 
the same kind o' smoked fish that other people 
got." Sipes replied that this was "pufectly satis- 
factory" to him. 

After discoursing at length on some wonderful 

[153] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

cures which he had effected, in cases that "the 
reg'lar doctors had given up," and the "marvelous 
potentialities" of some of his secret herb extracts, 
and "saline infusions, even when given in small 
doses," Doc would disappear in the gray land- 
scape — probably absorbed in his reflections upon 
the "general cussedness of womankind" and the 
futility of medical schools. 

I was always apprehensive when he went in 
John's direction, but as the old fisherman looked 
comparatively well when I last saw him, it was 
evident that Doc had not yet operated. 

"You know its far be it from me to knock any- 
body," said Sipes one morning, "but this Doc 
Looney gives me a big chill. He's always mosey- 
in' around, an' never seems to be goin' anywheres. 

"Oncet 'e come here an' borrowed a kittle. He 
took it off up the shore, an' that night I seen 'im 
with a little fire that 'e'd built on the sand up 
next to the bluff, near some logs. He was roostin' 
on one o' the logs, studyin' sumpen that was in the 
kittle. I sneaked up unbeknown, an' watched 'im 
fer a long time. He kept puttin' weeds an' han'- 
fulls o' buds in the kittle an' stirrin' the mess with 

[154] 



DOC LOONEY 

a stick. Every little while 'e'd taste o' the dope 
by coolin' the end o' the stick an' lickin' it. Be- 
fore I seen 'im doin' this I thought 'e might be 
mixin' pizen. He was mixin' sumpen all right, 




fer after a while 'e got the kittle offen the fire an' 
let it cool a little; then 'e dreened it into a flat 
bottle through a little birch bark funnel, an' hid 
the bottle under a log, an' covered it up with sand. 

[155] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

He took my kittle an' stowed it in some thick 
brush, an' went off up the ravine. 

He's bin doctorin' ol' Catfish, an' 'e's always 
talkin' 'bout operatin' on 'im. There ain't nothin' 
the matter with the Catfish, 'cept 'e's got cricks 
in 'is legs, an' they bend out when 'e walks. All 
'e needs to do is to set down instid o' standin' up, 
and 'is legs won't bother 'im. He comes along 
'ere oncet in a while, with that ol' honey cart that 
'e loads them much deceased fish into that 'e 
peddles. It ain't no rose garden, an' I always stay 
to wind'ard when 'e's 'round. The next time 'e 
comes Tm goin' to tell 'im wot I seen the Doc 
doin'. The first thing Catfish knows Doc'll dope 
'im with that stuff in the bottle, an' then go after 
'im with a knife. There ought to be a law aginst 
fellers like that. He's full o' bats, an' 'e ought 
to be put som'eres where they could fly without 
scarin' people. 

"I never got my kittle back. I went an' looked 
where I seen 'im hide it, but 'e'd got to it first, 
an' I ain't seen it since. The next time the Doc 
comes up 'ere fer a kittle 'e'll git it out o' the air, 
an' 'e'll recollect it the rest of 'is life. 

[1561 



DOC LOONEY 



"There was a funny lookin' female come along 
the beach a couple o' years ago. She asked me 
if I'd ever seen a man 'round 'ere with colored 
glasses, an' FU bet she was on the trail o' the Doc. 




She had three or four long wire pins stickin' 
through a pie shaped bunnit, with a dead bird 
on it. She didn't look good to me an' I'd hate 
to 'a' bin the Doc if she ever got to 'im. I told 
'er I wasn't acquainted with no such person. I 
may not like the Doc, but I wouldn't steer nothin' 

[157] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

like that ag'inst 'im, even if 'e did swipe my kittle. 
She asked me about a thousand questions. The 
lake was calm an' there was a lot o' places out 
on it where some breeze was puffin', an' there was 
a lot of other places where it was all still an' glassy. 
She wanted to know what made them little smooth 
spots, an' I told 'er that them places showed where 
I cut ice out last winter." 

Catfish John said one day that '^the feller that 
hates the Doc the worst 'round 'ere is Sipes. Pie 
gave Sipes some medicine oncet when 'e was feelin' 
poorly. It was some 'e'd bin usin' fer a horse. 
He said Sipes 'ad got pips, an' would need a lot 
o' doctorin'. He kept takin' it fer about a week, 
an' when 'e w^ent out on the beach one day 'e 
thought 'e met 'imself comin' back, an' 'e quit tak- 
in' it. I guess the dope was too strong fer 'im. 
After that they had a fuss about sumpen else, an' 
the old man didn't have no use fer 'im. Sipes 
located a big hornet's nest som'eres up in the 
woods. He went thar one dark night an' slipped 
a bag over it so the hornets couldn't git out, an' 
carried it into the ravine to a little path that the 
Doc always used when 'e went to see Sipes. He 

[158] 



DOC LOONEY 

fastened it in a bush, close to the path, so the Doc 
'ud flush 'em when 'e come by. He come through 
several times but thar was nothin' doin. Sipes 
said the reason they didn't sting the Doc was that 
they was all friends o' his, an' they was all the 
same kind o' critters 'e was. He hoped they'd 
swarm on the Doc an' chase 'im out o' the county, 
but like a lot of 'is plans it didn't work." 

Sipes's theory of the existence of a state of natu- 
ral affinity between Doc and a nest of hornets, 
seemed to amuse old John immensely. 

"The Doc seems to think I'm goin' to let 'im 
tinker my knee, but I ain't. He gen'rally leaves 
some dope that 'e cooks up 'imself fer me to take, 
when 'e comes up 'ere, but I throw most of it out 
back o' the smoke-house. I let 'im leave it fer I 
don't want to make 'im feel bad. He keeps whet- 
tin' a funny lookin' knife when 'e's 'ere, an' hintin' 
about sumpen 'e wants to try on my leg, but I 
ain't goin' to have no cuttin' done. I've got a 
new cure that I'm tryin' now, that I ain't sayin' 
nothin' about." 

One cloudy day during the following fall, my 
friend Sipes and I went up the shore a few miles, 

[159] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

and landed our boat near the opening of a deep 
heavily wooded ravine, through which a small 
creek flowed to the lake. 

I intended making some sketches in the neigh- 
borhood, and Sipes offered to accompany me. He 
took his gun, as he thought there might be some 
"patritches" in the ravine. 

We pulled the boat well up on the beach, and 
picked our way along through some pine-trees and 
underbrush, following a narrow trail that crossed 
the stream several times. We had proceeded per- 
haps a couple of hundred yards, when we came 
to a queer looking structure, built into the side 
of the ravine, which had been partially hollowed 
out. It was rudely constructed of planks, short 
boards, and various odds and ends of building 
material, which had evidently been gathered up 
on the beach. It was about twelve feet long and 
possibly nine feet wide. There were two windows 
and a door that hung on rustv hinges. One hinge 
had lamentably failed to meet the necessary re- 
quirements and had been reinforced with a heavy 
piece of leather, which had once been a part of 
an old boot. 

[160] 



DOC LOONEY 

Tt began to rain, and as the little hut was ap- 
parently deserted, and seemed to offer a conve- 
nient shelter, we ventured to investigate the inte- 
rior. After removing a large accumulation of dead 




THE DESERTED LABORATORY 



leaves and sand in front of the door, we pulled 
it open and looked in. 

There was a small rusty old stove, in a bad state 
of repair, two broken chairs, and a table in the 

[161] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

single room. An irregular row of bottles, of 
various shapes and sizes, filled a long shelf, and 
sundry worthless looking utensils were scattered 
about. At the end of the room was a mildewed 
husk mattress on some boards which had been 
nailed to the ends of four pieces of wood, about 
two feet from the floor. Suspended from nails 
which were driven along the boards next to the 
roof, were large bunches of dried plants of various 
kinds. 

"This is 'is nest all right, an' this is where 'e 
makes 'is dope," remarked Sipes, and a minute 
later he held up a battered looking object, and 
exclaimed, "Dam'd if 'ere ain't my kittle!" 

We had indeed stumbled upon an abandoned 
secret retreat of Doc Looney. Like an illicit still, 
his laboratory had been hidden in untrodden re- 
cesses, away from the paths of men. In this quiet 
spot he could meditate, and compound his mysteri- 
ous "powerful remedies" with little fear of in- 
trusion by his female pursuers, and out of it he 
could emerge and roam where his fancy led. 

Into this deep seclusion the turmoil of warring 
schools of medicine, and the abuse of a captious 

[162] 



DOC LOONEY 

world could not come. His medicines and his 
theories were beyond criticism. Such a fortress 
enabled him to concoct ammunition with which 
to offer battle to the diseases of his kind, without 
fear of capture and incarceration, which he may 
or may not richly deserve. 

If the motto ^''similia similibus curantur^'' be 
true, some terrible human suffering could be alle- 
viated with some of the stuff we found on the shelf. 
Many of the bottles were empty, but we removed 
the stopper from one of them, and regretted it. 
We were assailed by a pungent and sickening odor. 
Sipes remarked that "sumpen must 'a' crawled in 
that bottle an' died." On taking it out to the light 
we discovered that it was about half filled with 
angle worms, whose identity was practically gone. 

"I know wot that stuff is," said Sipes, "its angle 
worm ile. That old cuss said oncet 'e was goin' 
to squirt some in John's knees to make 'em supple, 
when 'e operated on 'im, but John wouldn't let 
'im monkey with 'em." 

There were no labels on the bottles, with the 
exception of one which was marked "Bromide." 
The remaining materia medica could not be 
identified. 

[163] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

We examined the odd pieces which had been 
used in building the shanty, with much interest. 

The widely scattered driftwood, along the miles 
of curving sandy shore, suggests many reflections 
to the imaginative mind. Trees that have been 
washed from their footholds on the margins of dis- 
tant forests — logs, slabs, and wasted material of 
many kinds, incident to man's destruction in the 
wilderness — broken and lost timbers from piers, 
bridges and wrecks — are among the spoils of winds 
and seas that are relentless. 

Nature is as regardless as she is beneficent, and 
her storms and her sunshine do not discriminate. 

Some lonely dweller on the coast may have 
builded too near the abodes of the water gods, 
and, in their anger they may have reached out 
long arms to his humble home, and flung the fruits 
of his toil among the mysteries of the deep. Some 
unfortunate bark may have lost its battle with the 
tempest, and given its sails and timbers to the 
waves. 

When the vagrant breezes found them, they 
may have wandered for many months on the wide 
expanse. They may have floated in on the crests 

[164] 



DOC LOONEY 

of the singing ground swells — touched strange 
shores and left them — drifted lazily in summer 
calms, and offered brief respites to tired wings far 
out on the undulating waters. They may have 
been bufifeted by savage seas under angry skies, 
and battered among the ice fields by the winter 
gales. 

Like frail and feeble souls, unable to master 
their course, the lost and worn timbers have been 
the sport of the varying winds and the playthings 
of chance. They have at last found refuge and 
quiet on the desolate sands. Living forces have 
thrown them aside and gone on. 

Sometimes a name, a few letters on a plank, or 
a frayed piece of canvas, will offer a clue to its 
origin, and tell a belated story of misfortune some- 
where out on the trackless deep. 

Outside, on one of the boards used in the con- 
struction of the rude little hut, we deciphered the 
name "Pauline Mahaffy." It had evidently come 
from the hull of some proud craft that had once 
ridden nobly through the white-caps, and dashed 
the foam and spray before her. Alas, to what a 
prosaic end had her destiny led her! Immured in 

[165] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

a deep ravine, her last sad relic — her honored 
name — was a part of a disreputable shanty, and 
her last friend had left it to fade into oblivion. 

Even unto his solitude had femininity, in a 
modified form, pursued poor Looney. Sipes, un- 
poetic and irreverent, found much joy in the name. 
He chuckled in his glee, and mingled his mockery 
with his quaint philosophy. 

"Oh, Lord, if only that funny lookin' female 
I told ye about, that was huntin' the Doc, could 
see this! She'd spend a few seconds on the Doc, 
an' the rest of 'er life trackin' Pauline. She 
wouldn't know nothin' about names on ships, an' 
she'd think the Mahaflfy woman 'ad snared 'im 
an' took 'im away, an' 'e was that fond of 'er that 
'e put 'er name on 'is shanty. 

"Mebbe she landed on 'im 'ere, an' 'e lit out 
up the ravine. Them that live in this world can 
make all the trouble fer themselves they want, 
an' they don't need the help o' nobody else, an' I'll 
bet the Doc thought so too, an' scooted. "Pauline 
Mahafify! Gosh what a name! Wouldn't that 
blow yer hat ofif? He ought to 'a' hunted fer a 
board that 'ad 'Idler' or sumpen like that on it 

[166] 



DOC LOONEY 

that wouldn't never make no trouble. Most o' the 
pleasure boats that gits wrecked is named 'The 
Idler.' They'r mostly run by lubbers, an' 'e 
wouldn't have no trouble findin' one if 'e wanted 
a nice name to put on that old dog house. 'Idler' 
'ud just mean that 'e wasn't workin', an' you bet 
'e ain't, but 'Pauline Mahaffy' don't sound good to 
me. I seen the old cuss less'n a week ago, an' 'e 
must 'ave another coop som'eres else. This ravine 
'ud be a good place to set some bear traps 'round 
in. There's no knowin' wot they might ketch." 

When it stopped raining we continued our 
journey up the ravine to higher ground, and 
walked through the woods. We finally emerged 
into the open country, made a long detour, and 
returned to the boat. 

A sketch had been made of the shanty, but we 
had found no "patritches." The old man was 
greatly elated over the recovery of the long lost 
"kittle." Its present value was at least question- 
able, but he was happy, and he had carried it 
tenderly during the trip. 

"When I git home," said he, 'Til git some sod- 
der an' plug it up. If you've got some o' them 

[167] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

kind of seegars with you, that you gave me the 
other day, I think it 'ud be nice fer us to smoke 
one on the strength o' me findin' my kittle." 

The disreputable utensil was stowed carefully 
in the boat, with the rest of our belongings, and 
finally reached its rightful home. 

The adaptation of particular minds to particular 
forms of activity is one of the most difficult 
problems of our highly specialized social struc- 
ture. Happiness and achievement are largely de- 
pendent upon mental and physical harmony be- 
tween the man and his task. The learned pro- 
fessions, like all other mediums of human activity, 
carry with them in their progress the "misfits" 
and the "by-products" which are inseparable from 
them. 

Poor old Doc Looney is both a misfit and a by- 
product. He is innocently drifting in waters that 
are beyond his depth, and while he is of little value 
in the world, his "powerful remedies," "potential 
herbs" and "infusions" will probably find but few 
victims. 



[168] 




^«>{->»r;-.... i»»"W 



CHAPTER IX 



THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER 

ONE fall there were queer happenings in 
the dune country. The story is nearly 
twelve miles long, the details extending 
all along the shore, from Happy Cal's shanty to 
a point away north of where old Sipes sweeps the 
horizon through his little "spotter." 

The tracks of some strange and unknown animal 
began to appear on the sand at different places 
along the beach. They were about three inches 
long, and nearly round, with irregular edges. 
The impressions were not very deep. They had 

[169] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

not been made with hoofs. They were too large 
for the imprints of a dog or wolf, and were too 
small, and not of the right shape for a bear. 

No bird or beast could have made these tracks, 
that had ever been seen or heard of by anybody 
who inspected them. The denizens of the sand- 
hills, who had hunted and trapped among them 
for many years, were utterly amazed and dum- 
founded. Some marvelous thing had come into 
the country. All conjecture seemed futile, and 
there appeared to be no possible or plausible 
theory that would in any way explain the enigma. 

The mystery became more and more impene- 
trable. Many superstitious speculations and sur- 
mises were indulged in by the old derelicts. They 
were deeply perplexed and completely at a loss 
to understand a situation that was becoming un- 
canny, and began to suggest some kind of witch- 
craft. 

Extended search and diligent watch failed to 
locate the four-footed thing in the daytime. It 
seemed only to travel at night. Like the wond- 
rous "Questing Beast" in the Arthurian legend, 
and the fabled ferocious white whale of the ant- 

[170] 



THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER 

arctic seas, it became the object of vain and anxious 
pursuit. It seemed to elude miraculously all of 
the snares and stratagems devised for its capture. 
Evidences of its recent presence were apparent at 
the most unexpected times and places. 

Attempts to trail it through the woods resulted 
in failure, as there seemed to be no scent that a 
dog could distinguish. The only tracks that could 
be followed were those that were visible on the 
smooth sand of the shore. They always eventually 
led into the woods on the blufifs and were lost. 
The unsolved riddle became more puzzling with 
the discovery of each new depredation, committed 
by the unknown marauder, and the fresh unde- 
cipherable imprints were seen somewhere on the 
beach almost every morning. 

Once a half-devoured woodchuck was found 
near the mouth of a little creek that emptied into 
the lake, and a large fish, that had been cast in 
by the waves, was discovered, partially eaten, a 
little farther on. 

Catfish John left half a pailful of dead min- 
nows, which he intended to use for bait, under an 
old box. When he returned the next morning, 

[171] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

he found the box overturned, and the pail empty. 
His little smoke-house was invaded, the half-cured 
fish were gone, and the tell-tale tracks were all 
over the sand. 

Late, one dark night, Sipes landed his rowboat 
on the beach. From some unknown source he 
had obtained a side of bacon, which he left, with 
some other things, in the boat, while he went over 
to his shanty to get a lantern. He puttered around 
for awhile, getting his lantern ready, and looking 
for some tobacco. When he went back to the boat 
with his light, he discovered that the bacon and 
the remains of some lunch that he had taken with 
him, had disappeared. The round tracks of the 
mysterious thief were around the end of the boat, 
and the trail led straight across the beach into the 
ravine. Three nights later a couple of dead rab- 
bits, that he had hung up on the side of the shanty, 
were missing. 

With this fresh outrage, Sipes went on the 
war-path. He loaded up his old shotgun, with 
double charges of powder, and some lead slugs, 
and lurked along the edges of the blufifs all night. 
He was beside himself with curiosity and rage, 

[172] 



THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER 

and it would have gone hard with almost any live 
thing that he might have seen silhouetted between 
him and the dim light on the lake during his vigil. 
The baffling mystery was getting entirely too seri- 




HE WAS "GOIN TO 
BUTCHER IT ON SIGHT" 



ous, and was affecting him too much personally, 
to admit of further temporizing. 

He went on several of these nocturnal expedi- 
tions, all of which w^ere fruitless, and his sulphur- 

[173] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

ous comments on his failures to find what he was 
looking for, indicated the intensity of his eager- 
ness to meet and annihilate "that cussed thing that 
'ad rained down, or come in ofifen the lake, an' 
done all this." He ''didn't care whether it 'ad 
scales, wings er tusks." He was "goin' to butcher 
it on sight." 

"He was cert'nly dead sore," said Catfish 
John, in relating Sipes's part in the drama. 
"After 'e'd hunted it awhile, 'e thought 'e'd try 
an' trap this varmint. He got an old net an' spread 
it up over some sticks. Then 'e put some meat on 
a long stick under the middle of it, an' fixed it so 
the net 'ud fall down over anything that tried to 
pull away the meat. The net was to tangle the 
varmint all up, when it fell on 'im, an' 'e tried to 
git loose. 

"The next day 'e went thar an' found them 
tracks all 'round an' the meat gone. Somehow the 
contraption hadn't worked. He set it agin, an' 
in about a week there was a big skunk in it, all 
messed up an' hostile, an' after that Sipes quit. 
He said that them fellers that wanted to trap that 
varmint could go ahead an' do it. He didn't 

[174] 



THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER 

want nothin' to do with no more traps. He was 
goin' to wait 'till 'e saw it, whatever it was, an' 
plug it with 'is gun. 

''He hunted 'round a whole lot at night, an' 
once 'e saw sumpen black, movin' along under the 
bluff. It was bright moonlight, but this thing was 
in the shadow. He took a couple o' pops at it, 
but it got away up in the brush. Sometimes 'e'd 
hear queer sounds outside 'is house in the night. 
He'd git up quick an' sneak out with 'is gun, but 
'e didn't never find nothin'. The next mornin' 
'e'd look for them funny tracks an' most always 
found some. Next 'e was goin' to put out some 
pizen, but 'e couldn't git none. 

"Afterward the whole thing come out. It was 
Cal's dog that done it. He come 'long the beach 
one day when I was fixin' my boat. I had it up 
on the sand, an' 'ad poured a lot o' tar in it. I 
was tippin' it an' flowin' the tar 'round in it to 
catch all the little leaks in the bottom. I left it 
fer a minute, an' the dog got in the boat an' 
puddled all 'round in the tar. What 'e done it 
fer I don't know. Then 'e hopped out on the sand 
an' caked 'is feet all up, an' that's the reason 'e 

[175] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

made them funny tracks, an' that's why them fel- 
lers with the dogs couldn't follow the scent. He 
didn't leave no animal scent. The tar an' the sand 
killed it. He probly didn't like the way 'is feet 
felt, an' when 'e skipped out from 'ere 'e was 
prob'ly scart an' didn't go back to Cal's. He must 
'av spent his time hidin' 'round in the woods in 
the daytime, an' at night 'e'd come out 'long the 
beach to git sumpen to eat. 

"I didn't think of all this 'till some feller come 
'long 'ere an' said 'e'd followed them tracks down 
to Cal's place an' found 'im settin' outside rubbin' 
'is dog's paws with grease, an' tryin' to git big 
lumps o' tar an' sand ofif 'em. The dog 'ad bin 
gone about two weeks, an' Cal thought 'e'd gone 
ofif fer good. I'll bet Cal was glad to git 'im back. 

"Td oughter thought it out before, fer Cal come 
up 'ere one day an' asked me if I'd seen 'is dog, 
but I'd forgot all about 'is gittin in the tar, an' 
s'posed 'e'd gone oflf home when 'e left 'ere." 

Pete's adventures had been varied and exciting 
while they lasted. He had added variety and in- 
terest to the community in which he lived, and 

[176] 



THE MYSTERIOUS PROWLER 

had really done but very little actual harm during 
his absence from home. 

Sipes philosophically remarked that ' everythin' 
comes to an end in this world, an' this 'ere dog 
'11 come to one, if 'e ever gits this way agin. 
T s'pose it's all sweet an' proper fer me to git a 
bunch o' bacon an' two rabbits stole, an' I s'pose 
Fm the only one that cares about them things I 
lost, but all the same, T ain't runnin' no animile 
restaurant, an' some day there'll be some dog 
tracks on this beach that '11 all point the same way, 
if that thievin' quadrypeed ever comes skulpin' 
'round 'ere." 



[177] 





X lelMO.^^ Su>r^^n^r^y 



CHAPTER X 
J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

A LONELY abode near the opening of a 
ravine, about four miles from Sipes' hut, 
bore the scars of many winters. It was 
not over twelve feet square. It had two small win- 
dows, a narrow door and a "lean to" roof. On 
the door was the roughly carved inscription — "J. 
Ledyard Symington, Tuesdays and Thursdays." 
Near this was nailed an old cigar box, with a 
slit in the cover. Lettered on the box was a re- 
quest to "Please leave card." 

I often passed this mysterious dwelling with- 
out seeing any indications of life, but one chilly 
rainy day I saw smoke issuing from the bent piece 
of stove-pipe, protruding through the roof. The 
fact that it happened to be Thursday helped to 
overcome my reluctance to disturb the occupant. 

A cordial and cheery call to "come in" was the 
response to my gentle knock. 

I found a rather tall, pleasant faced, watery 
eyed old man, with a gray beard, aquiline nose, 

[179] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

and shaggy eyebrows, who rose from a box on 
which he had been sitting before a small table. 
There was an unmistakable air of noblesse 
oblige in his polite ofifer of another box. His 
clothes bespoke the "shabby genteel," which was 
accentuated by a somewhat battered and much 
worn plug hat, that hung on a peg near the win- 
dow back of the table. 

I apologized for my intrusion, told him that I 
had had rather a long walk, and would be glad 
to rest awhile before his fire. He seemed in- 
terested in some sketches made during the morn- 
ing, which he asked to see. His courtly air did 
not desert him when he confessed that he "hadn't 
had a smoke for a week." I handed him some 
tobacco. He fished a disreputable looking big 
black pipe out of some rubbish on a shelf, and 
was soon enveloped in the comforting fumes. 

I was made to feel much at home, and his con- 
versation soon lost its tinge of formality. He 
looked at me curiously and asked where I was 
from. When I told him, his eyes brightened, and 
he wanted to know what the principal society 
events had been during the winter. He said he 

[180] 



J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

had only seen half a dozen papers in five or six 
months, and had lost all track of what had been 
going on. 

Along one of the shelves at the end of the room 
were ranged several books on etiquette, and thirty 
or forty much worn novels, of the variety usually 
absorbed by very young ladies in hammocks, scat- 
tered around the shaded lawns of white flannel 
summer resorts, where the most intense intellectual 
occupations are tennis and dancing — books in 
which are recorded the "dashing devilish beauty 
of Cyril," with his "corking and perfectly rip- 
ping" ideas, and the bewildering charms of wil- 
lowy Geraldine, the violet eyed heiress, with the 
long lashes, her many stunning costumes and 
clinging gowns. Flashing glances, nonchalantly 
twirled canes, faintly perfumed stationery, and 
softly tearful moods adorn the pages. 

The limousine of the "Soap King" goes whirl- 
ing by, which is placed at the service of the duke, 
when he arrives, incognito, to annex, matrimoni- 
ally, the anxious millions that await him. The 
story takes us up wondrously carved staircases, 
among many palms, and into marble halls, through 

[181] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

which faint voluptuous music flows. The walls 
are lined with long rows of priceless old masters. 
Modern society novelists have found and given to 
the world many more Rembrandts and Van Dykes 
than those two humble toilers at the lower end 
of the social scale could have painted in a geo- 
logical era. The duke eventually fails to produce 
his coronet, and the true love match is off. Cupid 
disappears through a stained glass casement. Dare 
Devil Cyril rescues the lovely Geraldine from 
under a fallen horse, or a purple touring car, 
and bravely carries her to another; her warm 
breath touches his cheek, and the wedding chimes 
come just in time to enable the fair reader to 
dress for dinner. 

Oh, noble Cyril, and bewitching Geraldine! — 
your names may change on different pages, but 
ever and anon you flit through the countless 
cylinders of unnumbered presses. Like the lilies 
of the field, you toil not, neither do you spin. The 
triumphs and the failures of a thinking, striving 
world are not for you; its problems and its tears 
are not within your charmed circle, but He who 
marks the sparrow's fall, may gather even you, 

[182] 



J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

with the rest of the created things, if there are 
other worlds to come. 

Noticing my glance at the book-shelf, my host 
said, rather apologetically, "my library is not as 
large as I would like to have it. The fact is that 
I take a great deal of interest in social matters. 
I am unfortunately placed in a very peculiar and 
humiliating position. A great many years ago I 
fell heir to a large fortune, on the death of my 
uncle, and expected to devote my time entirely to 
society, and the pleasures of a gentleman of leisure. 
A lot of contesting relatives came on the scene, 
and for over twenty years the case has been in 
the courts. Several times I almost got cheated out 
of my inheritance, but it looks now as though I 
might get it. 

"I keep in touch with everything that may be 
of use to me when I go into the world in the way 
that my uncle intended that I should. As social 
novelists generally reflect their own periods quite 
accurately, I feel that these books give me a very 
good idea of what is going on, and I get a great 
deal of pleasure out of them. 

"I had a pretty good education, when I was 

[183] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

young, but I don't care so much about that, as I 
do for the ability to do things in proper form 
when I get what is coming to me. This enforced 
residence in these miserable hills, is just to make 
certain people think that I am dead. I am going 
to be alive at just the right time, and when I show 
up there will be a lot of surprises. 

"As a matter of fact my ancestry is very ancient. 
I looked it up in Burke's Peerage when my uncle 
died, and found that I came from two of the very 
best families. On the other side I would be a 
baronet, but I don't want to go over there until 
I get my money. When I walk into my estates, 
I will do so unknown. I will suddenly reveal 
myself, and there will be a scattering of a lot of 
upstarts and false nobility who have been enjoy- 
ing what rightfully belongs to me. 

'T don't associate with these loafers that live 
around in these sand hills at all. They are low 
fellows, and I have no use for them. Every three 
months I go to a certain post-office, and get a 
money order for a certain amount, from a certain 
party who knows where I am, and is keeping track 
of things for me. It isn't as big a money order as 

[184] 



J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

I would like, but I assure you that these conditions 
are only temporary, and when the proper time 
comes, you will find me gone." 

I listened to the old man's story, which occupied 
most of the afternoon, with some suspicion, but 
with much interest. Some mysterious tea and a 
couple of damp soda crackers were served at this 
impromptu reception. He expressed much pleas- 
ure that I had called, and said that he hoped I 
would come again. 

The impressions of my visit were really very 
pleasant, until, a few days later, they came under 
the fire of the withering sarcasm and barbed satire 
of Sipes, who from his lonely eyrie four miles 
away, across a bend in the shore, could observe 
the home of J. Ledyard Symington through his 
little spy-glass. 

"That feller down there makes me tired. When 
'e fust come in the hills, about six years ago, 'e 
put up a sign that said 'J. Simons.' He used to 
go 'way oncet in a while, an' ev'ry time 'e'd come 
back with a lot o' red an' green books that 'e'd set 
out on the sand an' read. He's got the society 

[185] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

bug, an' 'e thinks 'e's cut out fer to shine in new 
clothes all the time. 

"Some day 'e says 'e's goin to live in a big house. 
He comes 'ere sometimes to see if I've got any 
newspapers. I got some oncet, to see if them Japs 
'ad got them fellers in Port Arthur yet, an' Simons 
set down an' studied 'em all through to see wot 
the society push was doin'. 

"He's got a box out in front that says to drop 
in cards. Oncet, just to show 'im that I was polite, 
I stuck a seven spot into it. I wouldn't hand 
nothin' above a seven to a guy like 'im. After 
that I laid out a lot o' games o' sollytare that I 
couldn't make work, an' I seen sumpen was the 
matter with my deck, an' then I recollected that 
cussed seven spot, an' I skipped back there when 
that ol' goat was snoozin' one night an' fished it 
out of 'is box. He's plumb nutty, an' 'e don't 
amuse me a bit. You fellers may like 'im, but Til 
bet that when 'e gits 'is big house, you an' me won't 
be asked to it. Nothin' like him goes with me. 

"He never has no whisky, an' I don't never see 
'im out on the lake. He don't fish ner hunt, an' 
Hell ! I don't know where 'e gits 'is money. After 

[186] 



J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

'e'd bin down there a couple o' years, 'e changed the 
name on 'is door to 'J. L. Simons', an' after that 
'e had it J. Ledward Simons' an' now its 'J. Led- 
yard Symington — Tuesdays & Thursdays'. I 
s'pose 'e'll 'ave 'Tuesdays & Thursdays' fer a part 
o' that name 'e's grad'ally constructin' if 'e keeps 
it up. Mebbe 'e means that on them days 'e's al- 
ways out, but I ain't goin' to keep track o' the 
days o' the week fer Jiini, and 'e and 'is ol' hard- 
boiled hat can go to the devil. 

"If 'e has 'J. Ledyard Symington Tuesdays & 
Thursdays' fer a name 'ere, wot d'ye s'pose 'e'll 
'ave it when 'e gits in 'is big house, that 'e's al- 
ways tellin' about? I'll bet 'e'll 'ave a name that 
ye can't git through the yard. His plug hat makes 
me sick. Wot d'ye s'pose Dewey at Maniller 
would 'av said to a man with a lid like that? He'd 
a said 'Bingo!' an' smashed it. After that 'e'd a 
told Gridley to begin' on 'im any time 'e was 
ready." 

At this point the old man's comments began to 
be mingled with so much ornate profanity that it 
seems futile to attempt properly to expurgate his 
remarks. He declared that Simons was certainly 

[187] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"bunk." "A name like wot 'e'd built out o' noth- 
in' would finish anybody." He thought that some- 
thing "ought to happen to everybody that got stuck 
on themselves, an' usually it did. All o' them 
geezers that live 'ere an' there on the shore, are 
prob'ly 'ere an' there 'cause it's better so fer them. 
With me its different. I'm 'ere 'cause I want 
to be 'ere. Simons '11 prob'ly light out some day, 
the same way Cal did. I'm goin' down there some 
night an' slip the whole darn deck in 'is card 
box, just to show my heart's in the right place." 

Sipes was a captious critic, and to him the 
"mantle of charity" was an unknown fabric. It 
was evident that the social strata in the dunes had 
some humps that would never be leveled. 

I passed the shanty some months later, but there 
was no smoke or other sign of habitation. The 
disappointed old occupant had evidently "lit out." 
The sad-looking "plug" was stuck over the top of 
the rusty section of stovepipe that had served as 
the chimney. It was now literally a "stovepipe 
hat" — that crown of absurdity among the follies 
of mankind, against which both art and nature 
have vainly protested through blinding tears. 

[188] 



J. LED YARD SYMINGTON 

I suspected the subtle facetiousness of Sipes in 
the apt decoration of the protruding piece of stove 
pipe with this melancholy emblem of departed 
gentility. Its top was ripped around the edge, 
and it moved languidly up and down in the vary- 
ing winds, as if in mockery of inconstant fashion. 




which is regulated by custom instead of artistic 
taste. 

The building of the distinguished name had, 

[189] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

however, been continued, and the legend on the 
door was now, "J. Ledyard Symington-Syming- 
ton, Bart." The reception days had been effaced. 
The old man may have achieved that point in his 
social aspirations when he "didn't care to know 
anybody who wasn't anybody." Like Don Qui- 
xote, he may have departed to battle with hostile 
windmills, or he may have walked into his estates 
"unknown," to mingle in phantom social functions 
in ghostly halls and silent chambers in the Great 
Beyond. 

Perhaps there are no "Tuesdays and Thursdays" 
there, and calling cards and stovepipe hats are 
unnecessary. His blighted hopes, and those that 
may have ended in fruition, concern the widely 
distributed gossips along the coast no more. 

While we may be interested and amused with 
the petty gossip, the rude philosophy, the quaint 
humor, the little antagonisms, and the child-like 
foibles of these lonely dwellers in the dune country, 
the pathos that overshadows them must touch our 
hearts. 

They have brought their life scars into the deso- 
late sands, where the twilight has come upon them. 

[ 190] 



J. LEDYARD SYMINGTON 

The roar of a mighty world goes on beyond them. 
Unable to navigate the great currents of life, they 
have drifted into stagnant waters. 

Happy Cal's unwelcome guests and his blighted 
afifections — Catfish John's rheumatism and his 
pork that "them fellers" stole — Old Sipes's lost 
"kittle" — Doc Looney's unappreciative wives — J. 
Ledyard Symington's "humiliations," and all the 
other troubles of the old outcasts, will disappear 
into the oblivion of the years, with the rest of the 
afifairs and happenings of this life. 

If they have not been ambitious, their rapacity 
has not destroyed empires, or deluged the earth 
with blood. If they have not been learned, they 
have not used knowledge to devise means for the 
destruction of human life. If they have not been 
powerful, their greed has not oppressed and im- 
poverished their fellow-beings. 

Let us hope that the storms from the lake, and 
civilization on the shore, will deal gently with 
these poor derelicts, as they peacefully fade away 
into the elements from which thev came. 



[191] 




(From Ihe A uthnr's Etching) 



'RESUMING THEIR MIGRATIONS" 




CHAPTER XI 

THE BACK COUNTRY 

BEHIND the ranges of the sand hills, lie 
stretches of broken waste country. It is 
diversified with patches of woods, tangled 
thickets, swamps, little ponds, stagnant pools 
covered with green microscopic vegetation, and 
small areas of productive soil. There are long, 
low elevations, covered sparsely with gnarled 

[193] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

pines, spruces, poplars, and sumacs. Tall elms, 
many willows, and an occasional silvery barked 
sycamore, lend variety to the scene. 

Here and there, just back of the big hills, are 
deep secluded tarns, which have no visible outlets 
or inlets. One looks cautiously down from the 
surrounding edges. In the obscurity of the deep 
shadows there is tangled dead vegetation, a few 
decayed tree-trunks, and an uncanny stillness. 
Unseen stagnant water is there, and the mysterious 
depths seem to be without life. They are fit abodes 
for gnomes, and evil spirits may haunt their si- 
lences. There is an instinctive creepy feeling, and 
an undefined dread in the atmosphere around 
them. 

Swamps of tamarack, which are impenetrable, 
contribute their masses of deep green to the charm 
of the landscape. The ravagers of the wet places 
hide in them, and the timid, hunted wild life finds 
refuge in their still labyrinths. In the winter 
countless tracks and trails on the snow lead into 
them and are lost. 

Among the most interesting of the marsh 
dwellers is the muskrat. This active little animal 

[194] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

is an ever-present element in the life of the sloughs, 
and he is the most industrious live thing in the 
back country. His numerous families thrive and 
increase, in spite of vigilant enemies that besiege 
them. The larger owls, the foxes, minks, and steel 
traps are their principal foes. 




A MARSH DWELLER 



The houses, irregular in shape and size, dot the 
surfaces of the ponds and swamps. They are built 
of lumps of sod and mud, mixed with bulrushes 

[195] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

and heavy grass. They usually contain two rooms, 
one above the other, and little tunnels lead out 
from them, under ground, providing channels of 
escape in case of danger, and safe routes of ap- 
proach to the houses from the burrows in the 
higher ground along the banks. 

The upper cavity of the little adobe structure 
is usually lined with moss and fine grass. Lily 
roots, freshwater clams, and other food are carried 
up into it from under the ice in the winter. In 
these cosy retreats the little colonies live during 
the cold months, oblivious to the cares and dangers 
of the outside world. 

There is a network of thoroughfares and bur- 
rows in the soft earth among the roots of the wil- 
lows on the neighboring banks. The devious 
secret passages and runways are in constant use 
during the summer. 

The muskrats are great travelers, and roam 
over the meadows, through the ravines, up and 
down the creeks, and around on the sand hills, in 
search of food and adventure. They run along the 
lake shore at night, and their tracks are found all 
over the beach. Their well-beaten paths radiate 

[ 196 ] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

in all directions from their homes. They are not 
entirely lovable, but the back country would be 
desolate indeed without them. 

The herons stand solemnly, like sentinels, among 




A SENTINEL IN THE MARSH 



the thick grasses, and out in the open places, 
watching for unwary frogs, minnows, and other 
small life with which nature has bountifully 
peopled the sloughs. The crows and hawks drop 
quickly behind clumps of weeds on deadly errands 
in the day time, and at night the owls, foxes, and 

[197] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

minks haunt the margins of the wet places. The 
enemies of the Little Things are legion. Violent 
death is their destiny. With the exception of the 
turtles, they are all eaten by something larger and 
more powerful than themselves. 

In the fall and early spring the wild ducks and 
geese drop into the ponds and marshes, and rest 




(From the Author's Etchin 



THEY "DROP INTO 

THE PONDS AND MARSHES" 



for days at a time, before resuming their migra- 
tions. They come in from over the lake during 
the storms to find shelter for the night, and are 
reluctant to leave the abundant food in these nooks 



[198] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

behind the hills. A flat-bottomed boat among the 
bulrushes, and a few artificially arranged thick 
bunches of brush and long grass, which have been 
used as shooting blinds, usually explain why they 
have not stayed longer. 

A few of the ducks remain during the summer, 
build their nests on secluded boggy spots, and rear 
their young; but the minks, snapping turtles, and 
other enemies besides man, generally see that few 
of them live to fly away in the fall. 

Occasionally a small weather-beaten frame 
house, and a tumble-down old barn, project their 
gables into the landscape. Around them is usually 
a piece of cleared land that represents years of toil 
and combat with the reluctant soil, obstinate 
stumps, and tough roots. 

Nature has begrudgingly yielded a scanty liveli- 
hood to the brave and simple ones who have spent 
their youth and middle age in wresting away the 
barriers which have stood between them and the 
comforts of life. The broken-spirited animals that 
stand still, with lowered heads, in the little fields 
and around the barn, are mute testimonies of the 
years of drudgery and hardship. 

[199] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

On approaching the house we encounter a few 
ducks that splash into the ditch along the muddy 
road, and disappear in great trepidation among the 
weeds and bulrushes beyond the fence. The loud 
barking of a mongrel dog is heard, a lot of chickens 
scatter, and several children with touseled heads 
and frightened faces appear. Behind them a lean- 
faced woman in a faded calico dress looks out with 
a reserved and kindly welcome. The dog is re- 
buked sharply, and finally quieted. The scared 
children hastily retreat into the house, and peek out 
through the curtained windows. We explain that 
we came to ask for a drink of water. The woman 
disappears for a moment, brings a cup, and some 
rain water in a broken pitcher, with which to 
prime the pump in the yard. 

This wheezy piece of hardware, after much 
teasing, and encouragement from the broken 
pitcher, finally yields, and one object of the visit 
is accomplished. The children begin cautiously 
to reappear, their curiosity having got the better 
of their alarm. 

A few commonplace remarks about the weather, 
a complimentary reference to a flower bed near the 

[200] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

fence, an inquiry as to the ages of the children, 
soon establish a friendly footing, and we are asked 
to sit down on the bench near the pump and rest 
awhile. 

''Don't you sometimes feel lonely out here, with 
no neighbors?" I asked. "No, indeed," she re- 
plied. "We've got all the neighbors we want. 
Nobody lives very near here, but there isn't a 
day passes that I don't see somebody drivin' by 
out on the road. I ride to town every two or three 
weeks, an' that's enough for anybody." 

A man of perhaps forty, but who looks to be 
fifty, rather tall and spare, with bent shoulders 
and shambling step, appears after a few minutes. 
His shaved upper lip and long chin whiskers 
strictly conform to the established customs of the 
back country. 

It is a land of the chin whiskers, and they are 
met with everywhere in the by-paths of civiliza- 
tion. Their picturesque quality is the delight of 
him who uses the lead pencil and pen to portray 
the oddities of his race. 

He has come from over near the edge of the 
timber, where he has been repairing a decayed rail 

[201] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

fence. His greeting is kindly, and we are made 
to feel quite at home. Some fresh buttermilk from 
an old-fashioned churn near the back door adds 
to the pleasant hospitality, and the loud cackling 
of a proud and energetic rooster, adorned with 
brilliant plumage, who takes credit for the warm 
egg which a dignified old hen has just left in the 
corner of the corn crib, lends an air of cheerful- 
ness and animation to the scene. He has just 
learned of the achievement, and the glory is his. 
Out in the yard is a covered box with a circular 
hole in its front. A small chain leads into it, 
which is attached to the outside by a staple. After 
a few minutes the furtive wild eyes of a captive 
coon peer out fearfully from the inner darkness 
of the box. He was extracted from the cosy in- 
terior of a hollow tree, over near the edge of the 
swamp, during his infancy, and was the sole sur- 
vivor of a moonlight attack on his home tree, after 
the dogs had located the happy family. The tree 
was cut down, the little furry things mangled by 
savage teeth, and their house made desolate. The 
little fellow was carried into a hopeless captivity, 
where his days and nights are passed in terror. 
He is a prisoner and not a pet. 

[202] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

It is mankind that does these things — not the 
brutes — and yet we cry out in denunciation when 
humanity is thus outraged. We chain and cage 
the wild things, and shriek for freedom of thought 
and action. Verily this is a strange world! 

I talked with one of the little girls about the 
coon. She told me his story and said they called 
him "Tip." My heart went out to him, and I 
longed to take him under my coat, carry him into 
the deep woods, and bid him God speed. He 
probably would have bitten me had I attempted 
it, but in this he would have been justified from 
his point of view, for he had never had a chance 
in his despoiled life to learn that there could be 
sympathy in a human touch. In this poor Tip is 
not alone in the world. 

Time slumbers in the back country. The 
weekly paper is the only printed source of news 
from the outside, and, with the addition of a 
monthly farm magazine, with its woman's de- 
partment, constitutes the literature of the home. 
These periodicals are read by the light of the big 
kerosene lamp on the table in the middle of the 
room, and the facts and opinions found in them 
become gospel. 

[203] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The country village is perhaps a couple of miles 
farther inland. There is a water-mill on the little 
river, and bags of wheat and corn are taken 
to it to be ground. The miller — sleepy-eyed and 
white — comes out and helps to unload the incom- 
ing grain, or deposit the flour or meal in the back 
part of the wagon. 

The general store and post-office is on the main 
road, near the mill. The proprietor is the oracle 
of the community, and a fountain of wit and wis- 
dom. The store is the clearing-house for the news 
and gossip of the passing days. 

A weather-beaten sign across the front of the 
building reads, "The Center of the World.'' 
The owner declares that "this must be so, fer the 
edges of it are just the same distance ofif from the 
store, no matter which way ye look." 

There is much unconscious philosophy in the 
quaintly humorous sign, for, after all, how little 
we realize the immensity of the material and intel- 
lectual world that is beyond our own horizon. 
The homely wit touches incisively one of the 
foibles of human kind. 

Elihu Baxter Brown, the storekeeper, is well 

[204] 



THE BACK COUNl^RY 

along in years. He is tall, somewhat stoop- 
shouldered, and his eyes look quizzically out of 
narrow slits. His heavy gray mustache dominates 



^- *l? 



TTVr 




THE "GENERAL STORE' 



his face, the cumbersome ornament suggesting a 
pair of frayed lambrequins. He lives in a little 
old-fashioned house that sets back in a yard next 
his store. A quiet gray-haired woman, with a 
kindly face, sits sewing in the shade near the back 
door. They walked to the home of the minister 
fifteen miles away, to be married, over fifty years 

[205] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

ago. They trudged back in the afternoon and 
began their lives together in the humble frame 
house that now shows the touch of decay and the 
scars of winter storms. 




THE STOREKEEPER 



The small trees that they planted around it have 
grown tall enough almost to hide the quiet home 
among their shadows. Little patches of sunlight 
that have stolen through the leaves are scattered 

[ 206 ] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

over the roof on bright days, like happy hours in 
solemn lives. 

In a sealed glass jar on a "what-not" in a corner 
of the front room is a hard queer-looking lump, 
encrusted with dry mold, a fragment of the wed- 
ding cake of half a century ago, which has been 
faithfully kept and cherished through the years. 
To the world outside it is meaningless; here it is 
sacred. 

The little things to which sentiment can cling 
are the anchorages of our hearts. They keep us 
from drifting too far away, and they call to us 
when we have wandered. The small piece of 
wedding cake — gray like the heads of those who 
reverence it — has helped to prolong the echoes of 
the chimes of years ago. It was a rough gnarled 
hand w^hich carefully put the glass jar back into its 
place after it was shown, but it was a tender and 
beautiful thought that kept it there. 

The old man is now seventy-six. He says that 
sometimes he is only about thirty, and at other 
times he is over a hundred — it all depends on the 
weather and the condition of his rheumatism. 

[207] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"When I git up in the mornin','' said he, "I 
first find out how my rheumatism is, then I take 
a look at the weather, an' figger out what kind 
of a day it's goin' to be. If it's goin' to rain I let 
'er rain, an' if it ain't, all well an' good. Business 
is pretty slow when it rains, an' when its ten or 
fifteen below in the winter, they ain't no business 
at all. When it gits like that I hole up like a 
woodchuck, an' set in the back part o' the store 
in my high-chair, an' make poetry an' read. I 
don't like to do too much readin', fer readin' rots 
the mind, an' I'd rather be waitin' on people com- 
in' in. Most gen'rally a lot o' the old cods that 
live 'round 'ere drop in an' we talk things over. 

''This rheumatism o' mine is a queer thing. I'll 
tell ye sumpen confidential. You prob'ly won't be- 
lieve it, an' I wouldn't want what I say to git 
out 'cause its so improb'le, an' it might hurt my 
credit, but I've bin cured o' my rheumatism twice 
by carryin' a petrified potato in my pocket. An 
old friend of mine. Catfish John's got it now, an' 
I don't want to take it away from 'im as long as 
it's helpin' 'im, but when 'e gits through with it, 
I'm goin' to have it back on the job, an' you bet 

[208] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

I'll be hoppin' 'round 'ere as lively as a cricket. 
The potato '11 prob'ly be 'ere next week. I've 
had it fer ten years, an' it beats everything I've 
ever tried." 

I asked the old man to allow me to see some 
of the poetry he had "made," and thereby opened 
up a literary mine. The request touched a tender 
chord and I was ushered back to a worn desk 
of antique pattern in the rear of the store. He 
raised the lid and extracted the treasure. A book 
had been removed from its binding, and the covers 
converted into a portfolio. He gently removed 
about a hundred sheets of paper of various shapes 
and sizes, covered with closely written matter. 
Some of the spelling would have shocked the shade 
of Lindley Murray, and made it glad that he had 
passed away, and some of it would have made a 
champion of spelling reform quite happy. It was 
vers libre of the most malignant type. Rhymes 
were freely distributed at picturesque random, and 
while the ideas, rhythm, and meter were quite 
lame at times, much of the verse was better than 
some recently published imagist poetry, which 
contains none of these things. Humor and pathos 

[209] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

were intermingled. Sometimes there was much 
humor where pathos was intended, and often real 
pathos lurked among the lighter lines. 

There are many singers who are never heard. 
Melodies in impenetrable forests and trills that 
float on desert air are for those who sing, and 
not for those who listen. A happy soul may pour 
forth impassioned song in solitude, for the joy of 
the singing, and a solitary bard may distil his fancy 
upon pages that are for him alone. 

The verse of Elihu Baxter Brown is its own 
and only excuse for being. It has solaced the still 
hours, and if its creator has been its only reader, 
he has been most appreciative. 

A touching lay depicts his elation upon the de- 
parture of his wife "in a autobeel" on a long visit 
to distant relatives, but the joy prevails only dur- 
ing the first six lines. The remaining thirty are 
devoted to sorrow and "lonely misery as I walketh 
the street," and end with "when will she be back 
I wonder?" He falls into a "reverree" and from 
under its gentle spell the virile lines, "The brite 
moon makes a strong impress on me," and "I've 
named my pet hen after thee," float into the world. 

[210] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

With ''eyes full of weep" he reflects that "some- 
times she's cold as all git out," and further on he 
wishes that his "loved one was a pie," so as to 
facilitate immediate and affectionate assimilation. 

He bids the world to "go on with its music and 
kink it another note higher." In later lines he 
naively admits that "of all the poets I love myself 
the best." Alas, he has much company! This 
efifusion ends with "Gosh, I can't finish this poetry 
till I pull myself together." 

War, love, spring, and beautiful snow flow 
through the limping measures. There are odes 
to the sun, the rain, and to his old bob-tailed gray 
cat, "Tobunkus," who drowses peacefully on the 
counter near the scales. 

The inspection of the poems led to the exhibi- 
tion of his box of relics and curios, which he 
greatly valued. Among the carefully ticketed and 
labeled items, which we spread out on the coun- 
ter, was a small chip from Libby Prison, a frag- 
ment of stone picked up near the National Capitol, 
a shark's tooth, some Indian arrow-heads, an iron 
ring from a slave auction pen of ante-bellum 
days, a chip from the pilot house of a steamboat 

[211]. 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

that was wrecked sixty years ago on the Atlantic 
coast, the dried stump of a cigar which had been 
given to him when he visited a Russian man-of- 
war in Boston harbor in 1859, ^"^ many other 
odds and ends that were of priceless value to him. 

I picked up a small, round piece of wood, which 
he told me was the most remarkable and inter- 
esting relic of the whole lot. "That," said he, "is 
a piece of the first shaving brush I ever shaved 
with" — a fact fully as important as most things, 
seemingly significant at present, will be a century 
hence. This wonderful object completed the ex- 
hibition, and the collection was carefully put away. 

The interior of the store was rather gloomy, 
badly ventilated, and was pervaded with number- 
less and commingled odors. I could distinguish 
kerosene, dead tobacco-smoke, stale vegetables, 
damp dry-goods, and smoked herrings, but the 
rest of the indescribable medley of smells baffled 
analysis. 

The stock of merchandise was varied, but there 
was very little of any one kind, except plug to- 
bacco. Over a case containing several large boxes 
of this necessity of life in the back country was a 

[212] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

strip of cardboard, on which was inscribed, "Don't 
use the nasty stuff." Under a wall-lamp was an- 
other placard, "This flue don't smoke, neither 
should you." Other examples of the proprietor's 
wit were scattered along the edges of the shelves, 
and on the walls, and helped to impart an indi- 
vidual character to the place. Among them were, 
"Don't be bashful. You can have anything you 
can pay for." "This store is not run by a trust." 
"No setting on the counter — this means you!" 
"Credit given only on Sundies, when the store is 
closed." "Don't talk about the war — it makes me 
sick." 

A large portion of the stock was in cans. Some 
of them had evidently been on the shelves for 
many years. There were cove oysters, sardines, 
and tinned meats of various kinds, with badly fly- 
specked labels. The old man remarked that "some 
o' them air-tights has bin on hand since the early 
eighties." 

The humble tin can has been one of the impor- 
tant factors in the progress of the human race. 
With the theodolite, the sextant, and the rifle, it 
has been carried to the waste places of the earth, 

[213] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

and because of it they have bloomed. Tin cans 
have lined the trails to unknown lands, and they 
have been left at both of the poles. The invader 
has flung them along his remorseless path when he 
has gone to murder quiet distant peoples whose 
religion differed from his own, and they have thus 
been made "instruments of the Lord's mercy." 
They lie on ghastly battlefields, mingled with 
splintered bones, where a civilization, of which 
we have boasted, has left them. 

They are scattered over the bottom of the sea, 
float languidly in the currents of uncharted rivers, 
and rust on the sands of the deserts. They are 
hiding-places for tropical reptiles in tangled mo- 
rasses, and prowling beasts snifif at them curiously 
in deserted camps along the outer rims of the 
world. 

They symbolize the ingenuity of the white man, 
and in them has reposed the remains of every kind 
of fish, reptile, bird and beast that he has used for 
food. The aged bull, the scrawny family cow, 
the venerable rooster, the faithful superannuated 
hen, the senile billy goat, and other obsolete do- 
mestic animals, have found a temporarv tomb 

[214] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

within mysterious walls of tin, and have helped 
to feed others than those who canned them. They 
enclose fruit and vegetables that could not be sold 
fresh, and in them they go to the uttermost parts 
of the earth. 

It was indeed strange destiny that took the sar- 
dine, flashing his bright sides in the blue Medit- 
erranean, and left him immured on a musty shelf 
in a store in the back country. If he, with the 
contents of the cans around him, could return to 
life, there would be a motley company. 

Perhaps, in quiet midnight hours, wraiths come 
out of the tins and play in the moonbeams that 
filter through the dusty windows. They may all 
have been there so long that social caste has been 
established. The fish, lobsters, cove oysters and 
clams, being sea people, probably hold aloof. 
This they may well do, as they are on the upper 
shelves. 

The elderly domestic animals may have a digni- 
fied stratum of their own, in which the afifairs of 
the old families can be discussed, while those who 
were feathered in life possibly form another pale 

[215] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

group that devotes itself entirely to questions of 
personal adornment. 

Behind the red labels on the lower shelves are 
the devilled ham and the pig's feet. The goblins 
from these may hold high carnival in the silvery 
light — the frolics of the indigestibles — and their 
antics may last until the gray of the morning comes. 

Nameless elfs may appear in the little throng. 
They are from the soups, and have so many com- 
ponent parts that they know not what they are. 
Naturally they may precede the others, but if they 
are in the ghostly circle, they are not of it. 

Probably the specters from the canned hash are 
at the lower end of the scale. 

I suggested to the old man that all these things 
might be happening while he slumbered, but he 
declared that I was mistaken. 'There's never bin 
any doin's like that goin' on 'round the store," 
said he. 

Figuratively, it might be said that many of us 
obtain most of our intellectual food from cans. 
The diet may be varied occasionally by fresh nu- 
trients, but too often we rely upon products bear- 
ing established trade-marks for our mental suste- 

[216] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

nance. The rows of labels, honored by time and 
dimmed by dust, stand like tiers of skulls, with 
their eyeless caverns gravely still — mute symbols 
of the eternal hours — as if staring in dull mockery 
out of a vanished past. Living currents flow 
around us unheeded. We absorb predigested 
thought to repletion, and neglect vibrant mental 
forces, that through disuse become depleted, in- 
stead of enriching them with the study of the green 
and growing things that have not been put in cans. 
"About ev'ry third year," said the old man, 
"business gits worse'n ever, an' that's when a boss 
trader named Than Gandy comes 'round. He lives 
some'rs in the eastern part o' the state, an' after 
'e's bin through 'ere 'e waits long enough fer 
most of 'em to fergit 'im before 'e comes agin. 
He starts out from where 'e lives with a sulky, 
an' a crow bait boss, an' about five dollars. He 
spends a couple o' months on 'is travels among the 
little places away from the railroads, an' when 'e 
gits through with 'is trip, 'e has a string o' seven 
er eight bosses, an' four er five little wagons an' 
buggies, an' a lot o' harnesses an' whips an' calves 
an' sheep, an' a big wad o' money. He's got all 

[217] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

them things to boot in trades 'e keeps makin'. He 
beats everybody 'e runs up ag'inst, an' when 'e quits 
'round 'ere nobody's got any money left to buy 
things with. They don't know what's happened 
to 'em till 'e's away off. When 'e stops at the 
store, he gen'rally trades me sumpen fer what 'e 
wants. 

"Once Jedge Blossom traded bosses with 'im 
when 'e was piped, an' gave 'im ten dollars to 
boot. He got a bum animal shifted on 'im, an' 
when 'e sobered up, 'e sent Gandy a bill fer fifteen 
dollars fer legal advice, an' the advice was not to 
come into this part o' the country anv more." 

The old man told me that he was born in a small 
town in Massachusetts. 

'T was named after the preacher of our church. 
He was a great man an' 'is eloquence was won- 
derful. His name was the Reverend Elihu Bax- 
ter, an' 'e used to go up into the pulpit, an' lean 
'is stummick 'way out over it, an' say, Wotr you 
listen to me\^—a.n^ that's the way 'e d rawed 'em to 
'im. When 'e'd first begin, the church 'ud be so 
still that you could hear the flies buzz, an' 'is voice 
would sound all hollow, like 'e was talkin' into a 

[218] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

big dish-pan. We don't have no more preachers 
like 'im now days, an' people don't go to church 
no more like they did then. We don't have no 
more old-fashioned Sundays. There's too many 
newspapers, an' what they have to say takes the 
place o' what we used to hear in the pulpit. What 
the preachers say now days ain't interestin' any 
more. People rest an' play on Sunday now, instid 
o' bein' solemn an' sad an' settin' 'round an' lis- 
tenin' over an' over to somebody tellin' about them 
three fellers that was in the fiery furnace." 

He felt deeply his responsibility as a representa- 
tive of the national government. The post-office 
department, with its rows of glass-fronted mail 
boxes, numbered from i to 40, was located at the 
right of the store entrance. The mail bag was 
brought daily from the railroad station, five miles 
away, by a fat-faced young man in blue overalls 
and a hickory shirt. His elbows flopped madly 
up and down as his horse galloped along the high- 
way with the precious burden across the pommel. 
He made another trip at night with the out-going 
mail, and when the hoof-beats were heard on the 
road, there would be many glances at the clocks 

[219] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

in the houses along his route, and the fact approv- 
ingly noted, that "Bill's on time to-night, all 
right." 

There are many people in the world who win 
lasting laurels by being "on time." Some do it 
quietly, and others by flopping their arms vio- 
lently, to the accompaniment of resonant hoof- 
beats, as "Bill" does, but being "on time" is essen- 
tial to success in life. "Bill" may have no other 
argument to present for his eventual redemption 
than the fact that he was always "on time," but it 
cannot fail to be powerful and convincing. 

"I would like this postmaster business," said the 
old man, "if it wasn't fer all the books I have to 
write in an' the blanks I have to fill out. It keeps 
people comin' in, but sometimes I have to set up 
pretty near all night writin' out things fer the gov- 
'ament. I don't keep no books fer the store, fer 
I never sell nothin' 'cept fer cash, or fer sumpen 
that's brought in, an' I keep my expense account in 
mv hat. If the sherifTf ever comes 'round 'ere to 
close me up, 'e won't find no books to go by. I 
spend all the money that gits in the drawer, an' 
if what's in the store should burn up, I'd be ahead 

[220] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

'cause I've got insurance, an' I'd git it all at once; 
so I guess Fm all right. I ain't got much to show 
fer my life, 'cept a grin, but that's sumpen. 
Some day I'll have all the poetry I've made 
printed into a volume that'll be put on sale, an' 
I'll have a reg'lar income an' I won't have to work 
no more. 

"I'm keepin' a first class place here. There's 
a lot o' this new-fangled stuff that I've stopped 
carryin'. People always buy it out when they 
come in, an' I have to keep gittin' more all the 
time. If I don't have them things they ask fer, 
they'll prob'ly buy sumpen that's already on hand. 
I can't please ev'rybody all the time, or I'd be 
worked to death. I don't keep no likker, but any- 
body can git most anything else here that'll make 
'em smell like a man, an' I don't sell no cigarettes. 
A feller come in 'ere with one once, an' when 'e 
went out 'e left 'is punk on the edge of a pile o' 
paper. After a while some o' the bunch out in 
front noticed some fire, an' it pretty near burnt up 
the store, an' besides they smell like a burnt offer- 
ing, an' I don't like 'em." 

I asked him if he ever went over to the lake. 

[221] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"Not fer about fifteen years. We all drove over 
there fer a bath, an' I took a bad cold an' I haven't 
bin there since. This talk o' washin' all the time 
is nonsence. Jedge Blossom's got a big tin bath 
tub up to his place, that's painted green, an' 'e gits 
in it an' sloshes 'round ev'ry Saturday night when 
'e's home, but when Monday mornin' comes 'e 
don't look no better'n anybody else." 

During one afternoon that I spent with him in 
the rear of the store, he showed me some of the 
literature which he had taken down from the stock 
on one of the upper shelves, and had been reading 
during the winter. The pile consisted of old-fash- 
ioned dime novels of years ago, with their multi- 
colored illustrated paper covers. Among the titles, 
and on the blood-curdling, well-thumbed pages, I 
found names that were once familiar and much 
beloved. "Lantern-Jawed Bob," "Snake Eye," 
"Deadwood Dick," "Iron Hand," "Navajo Bill," 
"Shadow Bill," "The Forest Avenger," "Eagle- 
Eyed Zeke," "The War Tiger of the Modocs," 
"The Mountain Demon," and many other forgot- 
ten heroes of boyhood days, "advanced coolly and 
stealthily" out of the mists of the dim past, and 

[ 222 ] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

once more they scalped, robbed, trailed, circum- 
vented bloodthirsty pursuers, had hair-breadth 
escapes, mocked death, rescued peerless maidens 
from savage redskins in the wilderness, and finally 
married them, as of yore. 

The romance in the pile was irretrievably bad, 
but it recalled happy memories. It was not sur- 
prising that the old man was impressed with the 
idea that "too much readin' rots the mind," when 
spring came, and he had finished the stack. 

Around the big stove, on chilly days, the owners 
of the chin whiskers congregate, with cob pipes 
and juicy plug. They contribute liberally to the 
square boxes filled with sawdust that serve as cus- 
pidors. In this solemn circle the great political 
problems of the nation are considered and solved. 

The gossip of the township is exchanged, and 
the personal frailties of absent ones discussed. The 
local Munchausen tells wondrous tales of his cow, 
that stands out in the river and is milked by hungry 
fish that wait among the lilies, and of hailstorms 
he has seen that have demolished brickyards. 

A projected barn, the sale of a horse or cow, 
the repairs on a wagon, the prospects of frost or 

[223] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

rain, the crops, the price of hogs, the tariff, the 
trusts, the rascality of the railroads, and many 
other subjects, are mingled with the gossip of the 
neighborhood. These matters are all deeply pon- 
dered over. They talk about their rheumatism, 




THE PESSIMISTS 



the "cricks" in their backs, their coughs, their 
aches and pains, and the foolish vagaries of the 
"women folks." They buy patent medicines, and 
they bathe only when they get caught in the rain. 
A slatternly looking woman comes in, buys some 

[224] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

calico, thread, two yards of ribbon, and some hooks 
and eyes. When she departs some one remarks, 
"Wonder wot she's goin' to make now!" From 
that the conversation drifts to "the feller that left 
'er about two years ago." The proprietors of the 
chin whiskers all knew "when 'e fust come 'round, 
'e wasn't any good," and the sage prophecies of 
by-gone days are now fully verified. The demerits 
of a certain horse, which he had once sold to one 
of the prophets, are again recounted, and the gen- 
eral opinion is that after the delinquent "got 
through with the lawsuit 'e was mixed up in, 'e 
went out west som'ers with the money 'is lawyer 
didn't git. Anyhow, 'e was no good." Nobody 
is "any good." 

When the time comes to "git home to supper," 
the dilapidated vehicles begin to crawl out into 
the fading light and disappear. They carry the 
pessimists and the few necessaries which they have 
bought at the store — some molasses, sugar, tea and 
coffee, possibly a new shovel, some nails, and al- 
ways a plentiful supply of plug tobacco, a great 
deal of which is filtered into the soil of the back 
country. Some eggs, butter, vegetables, and other 

[225] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

produce of the little farm has been left in pay- 
ment. 

After the tired horses are unhitched and fed, 
the exciting gossip is retold at the supper table. A 




THEY "CRAWL OUT INTO THE FADING LIGHT" 

few chores are done, an hour or so is spent around 
the big lamp, and another eventful day has closed. 
A week may pass before another trip is made to 
the sleepy village. 

[226] 



THE BACK COUNTRY 

Those who are gone are under the tall grasses 
and wild flowers on the hill near the woods, be- 
yond the little weather-beaten country church. 
The iron bell has tolled for them as they were laid 
away, and now that it is all over, it is the same 
with them as if they had been monarchs or mil- 
lionaires. 

A touching, if crude, epitaph can be deciphered 
on one of the gray mossy stones through the crum- 
bling fence. After the name and the final date 
are the lines, 

"Shed not for me the bitter tears 
Nor fill the heart with vain regrets. 
'Tis but the casket that lies here, 
The gems that filled them sparkles yet." 

and lower, under a pair of clasped hands, "We 
will meet again," and it may be that a mighty 
truth is on the stone. 



[227] 





^'S 






CHAPTER XII 
JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

THE road leading from the lake, through 
the sand hills, and the low stretches of the 
back country, over to the sleepy village, 
is broken — and badly broken — by numerous sec- 
tions of corduroy reinforcements, which have been 
laid in the marshy places, across small creeks and 
quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake 
is seldom traveled. Occasionally, during the hot 
weather, a wagon-load of people will come over 
from the sleepy village, and from the little farms 
along the road, and go into the lake to get cool. 
They will then spend the rest of the day swelter- 
ing on the hot sand to get warm, and return at 
night. 

Beyond the marsh, perhaps half way to the vil- 
lage, is the residence and office of Judge Cassius 
Blossom, the local Dogberry, the repository of the 
conflicting interests, and final arbiter in most of the 
petty dissensions of the sparsely settled country 
in which he lives. 

[229] 







/ 



OLD SETTLERS IN THE BACK COUXTRY 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

The "Jedge" was a faithful member of the sol- 
emn conclaves of the wise ones with the chin whis- 
kers at the general store in the sleepy village, 
where he often reversed the decisions of the su- 
preme court. His chair in the charmed circle 
around the big old-fashioned stove, and among the 
sawdust cuspidors, in winter, and out on the plat- 
form under the awning in summer, was looked 
upon as the resting-place of about as much legal 
wisdom, and about as much bad whisky, as one 
man could comfortably carry around. His disser- 
tations were always anxiously listened to and ab- 
sorbed by his auditors, each according to his ca- 
pacity. His opinions and observations were vari- 
ously interpreted to the home firesides around 
through the country at night, according to the in- 
tellectual limitations of the narrator. 

"The Jedge says that they's some cases that's 
agin the common law, an' they's some cases that's 
agin the stattoot law, but about this 'ere case he was 
talkin' about, 'e said 'e'd 'ave to look up sumpen. 
He told about a case where some feller 'ad sued 
another feller fer some money that was owin' to 
'im, but 'e'd lost the notes, but 'e was goin' to 

[231] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

git a judgment agin this feller all the same, an' 
make a levy on 'im. You bet I'm goin' to be thar 
when this case comes up in court an' see wot's 
doin'. The Jedge is sharper'n a tack, an' you bet 
them fellers over to the county seat ain't goin' to 
put nothin' over on' im, if 'e's sober. He'll make 
points on all of 'em, but if 'e goes over thar an' 
sets 'round Fogarty's place boozin', 'e'll lose out." 

In talking w^ith Sipes, one afternoon, about some 
of the roads in the back country, he suggested that 
we take a walk over to the Judge's house and see 
him. "The Jedge has got a map that's got all 
them things on it. The ol' feller deals in law, an' 
land, an' fire insurance, an' everythin' else." 

After Sipes had carefully shut the door of his 
shanty, and secured it with an old iron padlock, 
we started on our journey. He said that he gen- 
erally locked the place up when he went away, as 
"there was sometimes some fellers snoopin' 'round 
that might swipe sumpen, an' the Jedge told me 
oncet that if anybody ever busted open the lock, 
it would show bulgarious intent, an' they'd git sent 
up fer it if they ever got caught, but if they went in 

[232] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

when the place wasn't locked, it was trespass on 
the case, or sumpen like that." 

We trudged along through the deep sand for 
half a mile or so, and then turned through an open- 
ing in the dunes where the road came in. Our 
walk led through the broken wet country for about 
a mile before we came to more solid ground. On 
the way across the marshy strip the old man 
pointed out familiar spots where he had "lam- 
basted pretty near a whole flock o' ducks at one 
shot." In another place he had once spent nearly 
an hour in "sneakin' up on a bunch o' wooden 
decoys that some feller had out, an' when I shot 
into 'em you'd a thought a ton o' lead 'ad struck 
a lumber pile. The feller yelled when I fired. 
He was back in some weeds, an' I guess 'e was 
afraid there was goin' to be sumpen doin' on 'im 
with the other bar'l if 'e didn't yell." 

A tamarack swamp, about half a mile away, 
was a favorite haunt for rabbits in the winter. 
He often went over there on the ice after there 
had been a light fall of snow. 

"Them little beasts are pretty foxy, but I just go 
over there an' set still, an' when one of 'em comes 

[233] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

hoppin' 'round out in the open, I shoot the fillin' 
out of 'im. I've got as many as twenty there in 
one day. 

"When we git over to the Jedge's house, don't 
you go ag'inst none o' that whisky that 'e's got in 
a big black bottle in the under part of 'is desk. 
He calls the bottle 'Black Betty,' an' it's ter'ble 
stuff. It kicks pretty near as hard as my ol' scat- 
ter gun, an' 'e has to keep a glass stopper in the 
bottle. A common cork would be et up. A man 
that laps up whisky like that has to have a sheet- 
iron stummick, an' I guess the Jedge's got one 
all right, fer 'e's bin hittin' it fer years. 

"He fills the bottle up out of a big demijohn, 
that 'e gits loaded up from a partic'lar bar'l at 
Fogarty's place over to the county seat when 'e 
goes to court, an' lots o' times when 'e don't go 
to court. The bar'l replenishes the demijohn, the 
demijohn replenishes Black Betty, an' Black Betty 
replenishes the Jedge, an' after that the Jedge has 
to replenish Fogarty — so it all works 'round natu- 
ral — an' the Jedge keeps a skinful all the time. 

"A white man could drink the grog we used to 
have on the ship an' still see, but the Jedge's dope 

[234] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

would make a hole in a pine board, an' you pass 
it by." 

This I solemnly promised to do. 

"I notice that them fellers that take up stiddy 
boozin' have to 'tend to it all the time. When ol' 
Jedge Blossom finds out that them law cases that 
'e's always talkin' about interferes with 'is boozin', 
'e'll quit monkeyin' with 'em. It must a bin a 
sweet country that 'e bloomed in. Pretty near 
every time I go to see 'im, 'e ain't home. They 
say 'e's ofif 'tendin' to some important cases before 
the master in chancery. Them cases is prob'ly 
mostly before Black Betty, fer I notice 'e always 
comes home from 'em stewed, an' sometimes 'is 
horse comes home alone an' 'e comes later. He 
takes drinks lots o' times when 'e don't need 'em. 
He just drops 'em in to hear 'em spatter. 

"They'll find 'im in a catamose condition some 
day when 'e's over to the county seat, that 'e won't 
come out of, an' when it's all over they can dispose 
of 'is remains by just pourin' 'im back into Fogar- 
ty's bar'l. All that'll be left of 'im'll be 'is thirst, 
an' they'd better put wot'll be left of 'is fire insur- 
ance business in with 'im, fer 'e'll need some." 

[235] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The old man's entertaining review of the frail- 
ties of the "Jedge," and of alcoholic humanity in 
general, continued until we arrived at our des- 
tination. 

The small frame house, which was once white, 
but now a dingy gray, was adorned with faded 
green blinds. It stood about fifty feet back from 
the road. Some mournful evergreens stood in 
painful regularity in the front yard. The fence 
was somewhat dilapidated, and on it was a weath- 
er-beaten sign: 

Cassius Blossom, J. P., 

Attorney and Counsellor at Law, 

Notary Public, 

Fire Insurance, Real Estate. 

A gravel walk, fringed with white shells, led 
from the rickety gate to the rather ecclesiastical- 
looking front door. Sipes remarked in passing 
that "them white shells was to help the Jedge steer 
'is course on dark nights, when 'e was three sheets 
in the wind, an' beatin' up aginst it." 

There was a brown bell-handle near the door, 
and when it was pulled we could hear a prolonged, 
hoarse tinkling somewhere off in the rear of the 

[236] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

house. We soon heard footsteps, and a forbidding- 
looking female opened the door. She was quite 
tall and angular. A few faded freckles around 
the nose — a mass of frowsy red hair, liberally 
streaked with gray — a general untidiness — and a 
glint in her yellowish-brown eyes, as she peered 
out at us over her brass-rimmed spectacles, pro- 
duced impressions that were anything but assuring. 
On being admitted to the house, we were ush- 
ered into the "library," which also evidently served 
as a dining-room and office. A round table 
stood in the middle of the room, covered with a 
soiled red and white fringed table cloth. A hair- 
cloth sofa, with some broken springs and bits of 
excelsior protruding from underneath, occupied 
one side of the apartment, and there were several 
chairs of the same repellant material. A narrow 
roll-top combination desk and bookcase, freely 
splotched with ink-stains, stood near the window. 
Behind the dusty glass doors of the bookcase were 
a few well-worn books, bound in sheepskin. The 
first volume of Blackstone's Commentaries, a copy 
of Parsons on Contracts, two or three volumes of 
court reports, and the Revised Statutes of the state, 
completed the assemblage of legal lore. 

[237] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The pictures on the walls consisted of some 
stifif-looking crayon portraits in gloomy frames, 
evidently copied from old photographs — all of 
which were very bad^another somber frame con- 
taining a fly-specked steel engraving of the jus- 
tices of the U. S. Supreme Court, and still another, 
out of which the stern and noble face of Daniel 
Webster looked into the room. His immeasurable 
services to his country did not prevent him from 
leaving a malign influence behind him. His un- 
fortunate example convinces many budding states- 
men and promising lawyers that the human in- 
tellect is not soluble in alcohol, and they are lulled 
into the belief that the brilliancy of his mind was 
not dimmed by his indulgences. They emulate his 
weakness, as well as his strength, and console them- 
selves in their cups with the greatness of Webster. 

The "Jedge" sat at the desk, without his coat, 
writing, his back toward us. His shirt-sleeves, 
and his wide stand-up collar, were not clean. Evi- 
dently he was very busy and must not be disturbed 
just yet. With a solemn wink of his solitary eye, 
and an expressive gesture, Sipes attracted my at- 
tention to a faint wreath of softly ascending smoke 

[238] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

issuing from a cob pipe, which was lying on a 
window-sill on the opposite side of the room, 
which suggested that the important business at the 
desk may have commenced when the bell rang. 

Evidently the "Jedge" appreciated the tactical 
advantage which preoccupation always establishes 
when business callers come. The visitor, in being 
compelled to await the disposal of more weighty 
matters, is duly humbled and impressed with the 
fact that, at least so far as time is concerned, he 
is a suppliant and not a dictator. 

Dissimulation is an universal practice of man 
and woman kind. A pessimistic student of the 
complexities of the human comedy might, with 
much justice, conclude that at least half of the peo- 
ple on the globe — and especially of those who are 
super-civilized — pretend, to a greater or less de- 
gree, to be something that they are not, and the 
other half pretend not to be something that they 
are. 

Further thought upon this subject was inter- 
rupted by the "Jedge." The cane-seated swivel 
chair turned with a loud squeak, and we were be- 
fore the disciple of Blackstone & Bacchus— that 

[239] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

famous firm whose dissolution the shade of Web- 
ster will never permit. 

He was a spare, red-faced man, of perhaps sixty- 
five, with white hair and tobacco-stained whiskers. 
His prominent nose appeared to be a little swol- 
len and wore a deep blush. With a learned frown 
he looked out of his deep-set and bloodshot eyes, 
over the tops of his spectacles. His voice was 
deep and hoarse. 

''Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for 
you?" 

It was afternoon, but, as the uncharitable Sipes 
suggested later, "the Jedge prob'ly hadn't got 
home last night yet, or mebbe 'e'd just got up." 

''You will have to excuse me for keeping you 
waiting, but I've just been preparing the final pa- 
pers in a very important case that I've got to file 
in court by Saturday. I've had to work on them 
steadily for the past few days, as there are some 
very complicated questions of law involved, and 
I've had to look up a lot of decisions. I am now 
entirely at your service." 

After being formally introduced by my friend 
Sipes, I explained the object of the visit. The 

[240] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

"Jedge" was very cordial. He arose from his 
chair, walked impressively, and with much dig- 
nity, across the room, resumed his cob pipe, which 
was still alive, and raised the lid of an old leather- 
covered trunk, bound with brass nails. After a 
long search he produced the desired map and 
spread it out on the table. 

"Before we take up this matter of the roads, I 
think, gentlemen, that we had better have a little 
refreshment." 

We both politely declined his invitation and ex- 
pressed a preference for some cold water. He 
seemed disappointed, and, with a surprised and 
curious glance at Sipes, returned to the desk, 
opened one of the lower doors, and gently lifted 
"Black Betty" out of the gloom. 

"I haven't been feeling very well for several 
days, and I've had some pains in my back. If 
you'll excuse me for drinking alone, I'll just take 
a little bracer." Sipes' solitary eye again closed 
expressively, as the "Jedge" removed the stopper, 
grasped the big bottle firmly around the neck, and 
tilted it among his whiskers with a motion that 
no tyro could ever hope to imitate. 

[241] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The answering gurgle indicated that the "bra- 
cer" was "going home," and that, to say the least, 
it was not homeopathic. After the restoration of 
"Black Betty" to her hiding-place, the "Jedge" re- 
sumed the conversation, without referring to the 
cold water which we had suggested. Possibly the 
mention of it had affected him unpleasantly. 

He explained the map in detail, and told of 
several changes that would have to be made in a 
new one. This led to long accounts, punctuated 
with more winks by Sipes, of petty litigation, in 
which he had taken a prominent part, as a result 
of which a lot of land had been condemned and 
some new roads established. Had it not been for 
him, the highways would have been "entirely in- 
adequate, and in very poor condition." 

In summing up his public services he said that 
he had lived in that part of the state for about 
thirty years. His advice was now being generally 
followed, and the country was beginning to pick 
up. He had several small farms for sale which 
he would like to show me, if I thought of locating 
around there; in fact, there was nothing anywhere 
in that part of the country that was not for sale. 

[242] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

I told him that my interest in the subject was 
entirely of an artistic character. 

"Well, if that's the case, I can show you a lot 
of fine scenes, and if you'll come over some day 
and get into a buggy with me, I'll drive you over 
to the county seat when I go to court." 

He seemed much flattered when I asked him to 
allow me to make a sketch of him. After it was 
finished, he examined it critically, to the intense 
amusement of Sipes. He thought the nose was a 
little too big, and the hair was "too much mussed 
up." He also thought that the drawing made him 
look a little older than he was, and that the eye 
was not quite natural, "but of course I can't see 
the side of my face, and it may be all right. 

"As you are interested in art, you'll enjoy look- 
ing at my pictures." 

He then showed me the array on the walls, of 
which he was very proud. The crayon portrait of 
his first wife, with the cheeks tinted pink and the 
ear-rings gilded, he thought "was a fine piece of 
work." A man had come along, about ten years 
ago, and had made three "genuine crayon por- 
traits" for ten dollars. The "Jedge" supposed that 

[243] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"now days they would be worth a great deal more 
than that." The other two "genuine crayon por- 
traits" represented his father and mother, an anti- 
quated couple in the Sunday dress of pioneer days, 
who looked severely out of their heavy frames. 
The man had taken the old daguerreotypes away 
to be copied, and when the completed goods were 
delivered, he claimed that "the frames alone were 
worth as much as the pictures." In this he was 
quite right. 

The "Jedge" wanted to show me an album con- 
taining pictures of the rest of his relatives, but 
fortunately he was unable to find it. In searching 
for it, however, he ran across a box containing a 
collection of Indian arrow heads, flint implements, 
and spears, which were of absorbing interest. He 
had found some of them himself, and numerous 
friends, knowing of his hobby, had furnished him 
with many of these valuable relics of the red man, 
whose white brothers came with guns and strong 
waters and appropriated his heritage. 

He soon began to show signs of more pains in 
his back. With an apologetic reference to them, 
and with more sly winks from Sipes, "Black Betty" 

[244] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

was again produced, and her fiery fluid again 
solaced the arid esophagus of the "Jedge." 

The contents of the bottle were evidently getting 
dangerously low. He excused himself for a min- 
ute, and took it into the next room, where he re- 
filled it from the big demijohn that stood in the 
corner. Sipes indulged in many amusing grimaces 
as the sounds from the other room indicated that 
"Black Betty's" condition had again become nor- 
mal. 

After we had talked a little while longer, Sipes 
related to the "Jedge" the story of the tangled set 
lines, over which he and "Happy Cal" had got into 
trouble years ago, and wanted to know "what the 
law was." 

After listening carefully to all of the facts, the 
"Jedge" cleared his throat slightly and delivered 
his opinion. 

This preliminary slight clearing of the throat 
implies deliberation, and often adds impressive- 
ness to a forthcoming utterance. Sipes remarked 
later, that "nobody never lived that was as wise 
as the Jedge looked when 'e hemmed a little an' 
got on 'is legal frown." 

[245] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

"It seems from the facts before us, that the mass 
of property under consideration was discovered 
on the shore, about half-way between the homes 
of the two claimants, neither of whom, as a matter 
of fact, possessed original title to it. The position 
of the mass when found brings up several difficult 
questions of law, involving facts which are malum 
in se. A portion of it was on the surface of the 
water, a portion of it was submerged, and still 
another portion was on dry land. According to 
maritime law, that portion on the surface was 
flotsam, and that portion which was submerged 
was jetsam. The laws aflfecting flotsam and jet- 
sam would prevail as to these two portions, but 
as to the portion which rested on dry land, I am 
inclined to think that the lex loci would apply." 

Whereupon, the bewildered Sipes asked, "Who 
done this?" 

Disregarding the interruption, the "Jedge" 
again slightly cleared his throat and continued: 

^^A priori, I am of opinion that prima facie 
evidence of ownership rests with possession, and 
that the onus probandi must necessarily be ex ad- 
verso." The "Jedge" then stated that the opinion 

[246] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

would cost half a dollar. Sipes was speechless, 
but paid the fee. 

The "Jedge" had charged ^'Happy Cal" a dol- 
lar one night, years ago, for an opinion in the same 
case. He had advised Cal ''not to disturb the 
status quo." The dazed client paid the money 
and disappeared into the darkness. He probably 
stopped at Sipes's place, where the untangled lines 
were stretched out to dry, and cut them up, on 
his way home, thus disposing of the '^status quo" 
entirely. 

It was to the credit of the "Jedge" that he never 
took any more than his clients had, and they could 
always come back wdien they had more. 

We finally thanked the "Jedge" for his courtesy, 
and bade him good-bye. 

On the way back I reimbursed Sipes in the mat- 
ter of the half-dollar which he had paid for the 
opinion, as it had really been worth more to me 
than it was to him. After w^e had left the house, 
the old man's comments on the visit were earnest 
and caustic. 

"Wot d'ye think o' the gall o' that old cuss 
chargin' me half a dollar fer all that noise 'e made 

[247] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

about them lines? I don't know that feller Losey 
'e spoke of. He was never 'round 'ere at all, an' 
'e never 'ad nothin' to do with them lines, an' 
that melon in the sea, that 'e told about, was all 
bunk. There was nothin' like that near that bunch 
o' stuff. I don't know what ever become o' Cal. 
He may be now in spotless robes, fer all I know, 
but I know 'e cut up them lines just the same. 
There was about two miles of 'em, when they was 
fixed up an' stretched out, an' they was worth some 
money, an' as long as the feller that 'ad 'em out 
in the lake didn't come along to claim 'em, they 
was mine. Cal never 'ad no bus'ness with 'em, 
an' I don't need to mosey over an' pay that old 
tank fifty cents to find it out, neither. Cash us 
Blossom is a good name fer him, all right. He's 
everythin' I said 'e was on the way over, an' more, 
too. He's got some fresh money now, an' I'll bet 
the demijohn'll be trundled over to the county seat 
the first thing in the mornin'. He can buy a lot o' 
the kind o' whisky 'e drinks fer half a dollar. 

"He lays 'is demijohn on the side, underneath, 
when 'e starts out, but when 'e drives home it's 
always standin' up in the back o' the buggy, so 

[248] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

nothin' '11 spill, an' that's more'n the Jedge could 
do. When I see 'im drivin' on the road, I can 
always tell, by where the demijohn is, whether 'e's 
got a cargo or travelin' light. That heap big Injun 
dignity that 'e's always puttin' on when 'e makes 
them spiels o' his, gives me tired feelin's. You 
can't mix up dignity with whisky without spoilin' 
both of 'em. If 'e ever comes over to my place, 
you can turn me into snakes if I don't charge 'im 
a half a dollar fer the first question 'e asks. Til 
bet 'e won't come though, fer I'm too near the 
water. I wish I could sic old Doc Looney on 'im 
some time. He wouldn't stay afloat long after 
the Doc got to 'im." 

I asked Sipes if the forbidding-looking female 
who came to the door was the Judge's wife. 

"Not on yer life," he replied. "If 'e had a 
wife, she'd kill 'im. That ol' cactus is 'is house- 
keeper. She's a distant relative o' some kind, an' 
she's just waitin' fer Black Betty to finish 'im up 
so's she'll git the house." 

We arrived at Sipes's place about dusk. I had 
left my boat on the beach, and, as the old man 
helped me push it into the water, he indulged in 

[249] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

final anathemas against the "Jedge." He shook 
his fist in his direction and said that "when we go 
over there ag'in we'd better leave our money in 
the shanty." 

I happened to stop at the store in the sleepy vil- 
lage one hot day during the following summer. 
The "Jedge" was just getting into his buggy, but 
stopped and greeted me cordially. I intended 
leaving for home that evening, and he kindly of- 
fered to take me to the railroad station, about five 
miles away. I gladly accepted his of¥er, although 
he did not appear to be in a very good condition 
to drive a horse. 

On the way across the country he recited his 
public services, discussed the details of his "im- 
portant cases," and unfolded his dreams of the 
future of the county. 

We arrived at the station just in time to enable 
me to jump quickly out of the buggy and catch 
the train that was pulling out. I paused on the 
rear platform to call out a good-bye to the "Jedge," 
but he had tried to make too short a turn on the 
narrow road, and the buggy was lying on its side, 
much twisted up. The horse had stopped and was 

[250] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

looking inquiringly back from between the broken 
thills. The "Jedge," who was partially under the 
wreck, but evidently unhurt, waved a cheerful 
farewell at me as the train passed the water tank, 
and in the distance I could see that he was getting 
safely out of the scrape. 

The station agent and a few villagers, who had 
come to the depot to see that the train arrived 
and departed properly, were going to his assist- 
ance. 

From about two miles away I saw the black 
buggy top slowly resume its normal position and 
begin to move on the road. The "Jedge'' was 
probably by this time much in need of "refresh- 
ment," and, as he was now on the way to the 
county seat, relief was not very far off. Undoubt- 
edly his friend Fogarty would fully and deeply 
sympathize with him in his troubles as long as his 
cash lasted. 

He was one of the pathetic failures whom we 
meet daily in the walks of life. Naturally gifted, 
and fairly well educated, he had started bravely 
out on his road of destiny, with noble ambitions 
and alluring hopes. In the early part of the jour- 

[251] 



JUDGE CASSIUS BLOSSOM 

ney he had lifted a fatal chalice to his lips, and 
the way became dark. He drifted from the high- 
way that might have led to fame and fortune to 
the still by-path in which we found him. Because 
he was not strong, he fell — as countless others have 
fallen before him. 

The shadow of "Black Betty" has fallen over a 
chair in the sleepy village that is now empty, and 
it may be that the poor old "Jedge" is arguing his 
own plea for mercy before a greater Court. Let 
us hope that his final appeal may bring forgive- 
ness and peace. 

The stone, simple and suggestive, which was 
erected to his memory, was designed and paid for 
by his friends. Even Sipes relented and requested 
Catfish John to put fifty cents in "cash-money" 
into the contribution box at the store for him. 



[252] 




"AMOXG BIG WET STRETCHES OF 
HIGH GRASS AND BULRUSHES" 



_,(- 




CHAPTER XIII 
THE WINDING RIVER 

TO enjoy a river we must adjust ourselves 
to its moods, for a river has many moods. 
It moves swiftly and light-heartedly over 
the shallows, as we do, and it has its solemn, quiet 
moments in the shadows of the steep banks, where 
the current is deep and still. It begins, like our 
lives, somewhere far away, and twists and turns, 
flows in long swerves, meets many rocks, ripples 
over pebbly places, smiles among many riffles, 
frowns under stormy skies, meditates in quiet 
nooks, and then goes on. 

As it becomes older it broadens and becomes 
stronger. It begins to make a larger path of its 
own in the world, which it follows with varying 
fortunes, until its waters have gone beyond it. 

[ 255 ] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

The Winding River begins miles away and 
steals down through the back country. It curves 
and runs through devious channels and makes wide 
detours, before it finally flows out through the sand 
hills into the great lake. 

Along its tranquil course there are many things 
to be studied and learned, and many new thoughts 
and sensations to grow out of them. We must go 
down the river, and not against its current, to know 
its strange spirit, and to love it. There is always 
a feeling of closer companionship when we are 
traveling in the same direction. 

It is best to go alone, in a small boat, carrying 
a few feet of rope attached to a heavy stone, so 
that the boat may be anchored in any desirable 
spot. You should sit facing the bow, and guide 
the boat with a paddle, or a pair of oars in front 
of you, and let the current carry you along. 

The journey commences several miles up in the 
woods, where the banks are only a few feet apart. 
The boat is piloted cautiously through the deep 
forest, among the ancient logs that clog the cur- 
rent. The patriarchs have fallen in bygone years, 
and are slowly moldering away into the limpid 

[256] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

waters that once reflected them in their stately 
Indian summer robes of red and gold. 

Masses of water-soaked brush must be encoun- 
tered, and sunken snags avoided. Fringes of small 
turtles, on decayed and broken branches, protrud- 
ing from the water, and on the recumbent trunks, 
splash noisily into the depths below — a wood duck 
glides away downstream — a muskrat, that has been 
investigating a deep pool near the bank, beats a 
hasty retreat, and a few scolding chipmunks flip 
their tails saucily, and whisk out of sight. A gray 
squirrel barks defiantly from the branch of an 
over-hanging tree, and an excited kingfisher circles 
around, loudly protesting against the invasion of 
his hunting grounds. 

All of the wild things resent intrusion into their 
solitudes, and disappear, when there is any move- 
ment. If we would know them and learn their 
ways, we must sit silently and wait for them to 
come around us. We may go into the woods and 
sit upon a log or stump, without seeing the slightest 
sign of life, and apparently none exists in the 
vicinity, but many pairs of sharp eyes have ob- 
served our coming long before we could see them. 

[ 257 ] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

After a period of silence the small life will again 
become active, and in the course of an afternoon, 
if we are cautious as well as observant, we will 
find that we have seen and heard a great deal that 
is of absorbing interest. 

Larger openings begin to appear among the 
trees, the sunlit spaces become broader, and 
patches of distant sky come into the picture. 
There are fewer obstructions in the course, and 
the little boat floats out into comparatively open 
country. Tall graceful elms, with the delicate 
lacery of their green-clad branches etched against 
the clouds, a few groups of silvery poplars, some 
straggling sycamores, and bunches of gnarled 
stubby willows line the margins of the stream, and 
detached masses of them appear out on the boggy 
land. 

The Winding River flows through a happy 
valley. From a bank among the trees a silver 
glint is seen upon water, near a clump of willows, 
not so very far away, but the sinuous stream will 
loiter for hours before it comes to them. 

A few cattle, several horses, and a solitary crow 
give a life note to the landscape. A faint wreath 

[258] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

of smoke is visible above some trees on the right, 
there are echoes from a hidden barnyard, and a 
fussy bunch of tame ducks are splashing around 
the end of a half-sunken flat-bottomed boat at- 
tached to a stake. 

A freckled faced boy, of about ten, with faded 
blue overalls, frayed below the knees, and sus- 
tained by one suspender, is watching a crooked 
fishpole and a silent cork, near the roots of a big 
sycamore that shades a pool. 

He wears a rudimentary shirt, and his red hair 
projects, like little streaks of flame, through his 
torn hat. His bare feet and legs are very dirty. 
He looks out from under the uncertain rim of the 
hat with a comical expression when asked what 
luck he is having, and holds up a willow switch, 
on which are suspended a couple of diminutive 
bullheads, and a small but richly colored sunfish. 
The spoil is not abundant, yet the freckled boy 
is happy. 

After the boat has passed on nearly a quarter 
of a mile, his distant yell of triumph is heard. 
"I've got another one!" Paeons of victory from 
conquered walls could tell no more. 

[259] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Farther on, the banks become a little higher, the 
stream is wider and faster. In the distance a dingy 
old water-mill creeps into the landscape. This 
means that a dam will soon be encountered. The 
boat will have to be pulled out and put back into 
the river below it. For this it will be necessary 
to arouse the cooperative interest of the miller in 
some way, for the boat is not built of feathers. 

A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the 
river's course, and the clumsy old-fashioned wheel 
is slowly and noisily churning away under the 
side of the mill. The structure was once painted 
a dull red, but time has blended it into a warm 
neutral gray. Some comparatively recent repairs 
on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance, 
and add picturesque quality. A few small houses 
are scattered along the road leading to the mill, 
and the general store is visible among the trees 
farther back, for the little boat has now come to 
the sleepy village in the back country. There are 
no railroad trains or trolley-cars to desecrate its 
repose, for these are far away. Several slowly 
moving figures appear on the road. There is an 
event of some kind down near the mill, and the 

[260] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the 
store have been deserted. Whatever is going on 
must be carefully inspected and considered at 
once. 

There is an interesting foregound between the 
boat and the mill, the reflections to be seen from 
the opposite bank seem tempting, and an absorb- 
ing half hour is spent under the tree, with the 
sketch book and soft pencil. 

The curious group on the other side is evidently 
indulging in all sorts of theories and speculations 
as to "wot that feller over there is tryin' to do." 
It is a foregone conclusion that curiosity will 
eventually triumph, and soon the strain becomes 
too intense for further endurance. The old miller, 
with the dust of his trade copiously sifted into his 
clothes and whiskers, gets into the flat-bottomed 
boat near the dam and slowly poles it across. All 
of the details of the voyage are attentively scru- 
tinized from the other side. 

After a friendly "good morning," a few remarks 
about the stage of the water, and the weather 
prospects, he stands around for a while, and then 
looks over at the sketch. He produces a pair of 

[261] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

brass-rimmed spectacles, which enables him to 
study it more carefully, and he is much pleased. 
He "haint never noticed the scene much from this 
side, but it looks pretty. After this is finished oft 
you'd better come 'round on the other side, so's 
to show the platform an' the sign. A feller made 
a photograph of my mill once, an' 'e promised 
to send me one, but 'e didn't never do it." The 
long remembered incident, and the broken faith, 
seemed to disturb him, and he appeared to be con- 
cerned as to the destiny of the sketch. He wanted 
it "to put up in the mill." 

His befloured whiskers and general appearance 
suggest more sketches, and he is induced to pose 
for a few minutes. One of the drawings is pre- 
sented to him, and the curiosity on the other bank 
is now getting to the breaking point. Only the 
absence of transportation facilities prevents the 
crossing of the anxious spectators. There have 
been several additions to the gaping group on the 
other side. A portly female, in a gingham dress, 
stands bareheaded in the road, contemplating the 
scene from afar, and a couple of barking dogs 
have come down to the edge of the water. 

[262] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

The deliberate and dignified approach of the 
keeper of the general store lends a new note of 
interest. 

After further pleasant conversation, the dusty 
miller helps to drag the boat around the dam. He 
waves a cheerful farewell, recrosses the stream, 
and immediately becomes the center of concen- 
trated interest. The fat woman in the road 
waddles down to the mill, and a number of bare- 
headed children come running down the slope, 
who have peeked at the proceedings from secluded 
points of vantage. 

As the boat floats on, the figures become in- 
distinct, the houses fade into the soft distance, the 
mill, like those of the gods, grinds slowly on, and, 
with the next bend in the river, the sleepy village 
is gone. 

The story of the eventful day percolates from 
the store ofT into the back country, and weeks later 
we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the 
marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills, 
He unfortunately "wasn't to town" at the time. 

"A feller come 'long in a boat an' stopped at 
the mill. He was 'round thar fer over an hour 

[263] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

an' drawed some pitchers of it. He made one o' 
the old man with 'is pipe showin'. He was some 
city feller, an' had to git the old man to help 'im 
with 'is boat 'round the dam. The old man's 




"WITH THE NEXT KEND IN THE RIVER 
THE SLEEPY VILLAGE IS GONE" 



got a pitcher 'e made of 'im stickin' up in the mill 
now. A feller like him oughter larn some trade, 
instid o' foolin' away 'is time makin' pitchers. No- 
body 'ud ever buy one o' them dam' things in a 
thousand years. I'll bet 'e was spyin' fer the rail- 

[264] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

road, an' they'll prob'ly be 'long here makin' a 
survey before long." 

A little farther down is a loose-jointed bridge 
with some patent medicine signs on it. Another 
sign tells the users not to drive over the structure 
'^faster than a walk." Any kind of a speed limit 
in this slumbrous land seems preposterous, but 
the cautionary board is there, peppered over with 
little holes, made by repeated charges of small 
shot, and partially defaced with sundry initials cut 
into it with jack-knives. Some crude and un- 
known humorist has changed some of the letters 
and syllables in the patent medicine signs, and 
made them even more eloquent. 

Another lone fisherman is on the bridge, watch- 
ing a cork that bobs idly on the dimpled tide 
below. Another single suspender supports some 
deteriorated overalls. Possibly the freckled boy 
up the river was wearing the rest of the suspenders. 
He is an old man, with heavy gray eyebrows, and 
long white whiskers that sway gently in the soft 
wind. His face has an air of patient resignation. 
He wears a faded colored shirt and a weather- 
beaten straw hat. His feet, encased in cowhide 

[265] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

boots, hang down over the edge of the rickety 
structure, and he sadly shakes his head when asked 
if he has caught any fish. His lure has been in- 
effectual and he is about ready to go home. There 
is still a faint lingering hope that the cork may 
be suddenly submerged, and the appearance of a 
new object of interest has decided him to remain 
a little while longer. 

He explains that "the wind ain't right fer fish- 
in'. I've seen fish caught off'en this bridge so fast 
you couldn't bait the hooks, but the wind has to 
be south. Besides the water's all roily to-day an' 
the fish can't see nothin'. I bin drownin' worms 
'ere most all day, an' I ain't had a bite, an' I'm 
goin' to quit." 

Just after the boat had passed under the bridge, 
a dead minnow floated along on the current. A 
large pickerel broke water and seized it. His 
sweeping tail made a loud swish, and the water 
boiled with commotion as he turned and dove with 
his prize. 

Instantly the dejected figure on the bridge be- 
came thrilled with a new life, and a torrent of 
profanity filled the air. 

[266] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

"Now wot d'ye think o' that! The gosh dangled 
idjut's bin 'round 'ere all the time, an' me settin' 
'ere with worms fer 'im. They's a lot o' fish in 
this 'ere river that I'll teach sumpen to before 
Fm through with 'em. I'm a pretty old man, but 
you bet I'm goin' to play the game while Fm 'ere. 
I wonder where 'e went with that dam' minnie!" 

The boat goes tranquilly on, and in the dim dis- 
tance the old man is actively moving around on 
the bridge, flourishing his cane pole and casting 
the tempting bait all over the surface of the water, 
evidently hoping that the "gosh dangled idjut" 
will rise again. 

The river now comes to the beginning of the 
vast marsh, through which its well-defined channel 
follows a tortuous route among big wet stretches 
of high grasses and bulrushes, winds with innu- 
merable turns, makes long sweeps and loops, and 
comes back, almost doubling itself in its serpentine 
course. The current slackens and the water be- 
comes deeper. 

The cries of the marsh birds are heard, and 
muskrats are swimming at the apexes of the long 
V-shaped wakes out on the open water. On small 

[267] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 



boggy spots are piles of empty freshwater clam 
shells where these interesting little animals have 
feasted. As the crows seem to dominate the sand 
hills, the muskrats contribute much picturesque 
quality to the marsh. Their little houses add in- 




"THE RIVER NOW COMES TO THE BEGINNING 
OF THE VAST MARSH" 



terest to the wet places, and traces of them appear 
all over the low land. 

A wild duck hurries her downy young into the 
thick grasses — a few turtles tumble hastily from 
the bogs into the water — a large blue heron rises 
slowly out of an unseen retreat, and trails his long 

[268] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

legs after him in rhythmic flight down the marsh 
— mysterious wings are heard among the rushes — 
immense flocks of blackbirds fill the air — there is 
a splash out among the lily pads, where a hungry 
fish has captured his unsuspecting prey, and the 
deep sonorous bass of a philosophic bullfrog re- 
sounds from concealed recesses. 

Another bend in the channel reveals a flock of 
wild ducks feeding quietly along the edges of the 
weeds. The intrusion is quickly detected and they 
swiftly take wing. A sinister head, with beady 
eyes, appears on the surface behind the boat, and 
is instantly withdrawn. A big snapping-turtle has 
come up to investigate the cause of the dark 
shadow which has passed along the bottom. 

Some open wet ground comes into view around 
the next curve, and some lazy cattle look up in- 
quiringly. After their curiosity is satisfied, they 
turn their heads away and resume their reflections. 

The Winding River has its solemn hours as well 
as those of gladness. Heavy masses of low gray 
clouds are creeping into the sky, the shadows are 
disappearing and a moody monotone has come 
over the landscape. Deep mutterings of thunder, 

[269] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

and a few vivid flashes, herald the approach of 
a storm. 

Some thick willows, which can be reached 
through openings among the lily pads, a short 
distance from the main channel, offer a convenient 
shelter, and from it the coming drama can be 
contemplated. 

The big drops are soon heard among the leaves, 
the distant trees loom in ghostly stillness through 
veils of moving mist, the delicate color tones gently 
change into a lower scale, and the voices of the 
falling waters come. The reeds and rushes bend 
humbly, and there are subdued cries from the 
feathered life that is hurrying to shelter among 
them. The rain patters and murmurs out among 
the thick grasses and on the open river. 

There are noble beauties and sublimities in the 
storm, which those w^ho only love the sunshine 
can never know. Truly "Our Lady of the Rain" 
weaves a marvelous spell, and her song is of sur- 
passing beauty, as she trails her robes in majesty 
over the river and through the marshy wastes. 
Her pictures blend with her measures, for a song 
may have other mediums than sound, and there 

[270] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

are many symphonies that are silent. The prelude 
in the lowering clouds, and the melody of the 
loosened waters, bring to us a sense of unity and 
closer communion with the powers in the skies 
above us. 

The sheets of flying waters have gone on up 
the marsh, a long rift has appeared in the clouds 
beyond the hills, a bright gleam has come 
through it, and the end of a rainbow touches a 
clump of poplars far away. The storm is over 
and the little boat is piloted out through the lily 
pads, to resume its journey on the tranquil stream. 
It finally reaches the sand hills. The river nar- 
rows and runs more rapidly as it leaves the swamp. 
Another sleepy little town, with two or three 
bridges, appears ahead. There are more still 
figures on the bank, watching corks on lines at- 
tached to long cane poles, which are stuck into 
the earth and supported by forked sticks. The 
labor of holding them has proved too great and 
natural forces have been utilized to avoid unneces- 
sary exertion. The anglers appear much depressed 
and are soaking wet. A nearby bridge would have 
provided a refuge from the recent rain, but pos- 

[271] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

sibly their intellectual limitations did not permit 
of advantage being taken of it. 

A friendly inquiry as to their success evokes 
sleepy responses, and looks of languid curiosity. 
''The fishin' ain't no good. I got one yisterd'y, 
but I guess the water's too high fer 'em to bite." 

We have now come to the end of the Winding 
River. Its waters glide peacefully out and blend 
into the blue immensity of the great lake. Like 
a human life that has run its course through the 
vicissitudes and varied paths of the years, they 
have ceased to flow, and have been gathered into 
unknown depths beyond. 

There are many winding rivers, but this one 
has numberless joyful and poetic associations. On 
its peaceful waters many sketch-books have been 
filled, and happy hours dreamed away. From the 
little boat wonderful vistas have unfolded, and 
marvelous skies have been contemplated. 

The heavens at twilight, flushed with glorious 
afterglows in orange, green and purple — the clear 
still firmament at mid-day, lightly flecked with 
little wisps of smoky vapor — the lazy white masses 
against the infinite blue, and the billowing thun- 

[272] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

derheads on the horizon on quiet afternoons — the 
stormy array of dark battalions of wind-blown 
clouds, with their trailing sheets of rain — and 
many other convolutions of the great panoramas 
in the skies, have been humbly observed from the 
little boat. The Winding River has reflected 
them, and the picturesque sweeps and bends, the 
masses of trees on the banks, with the silvery 
stretches of slowly moving waters, have given 
wonderful foregrounds to these entrancing pros- 
pects. 

Fancy has woven rare fabrics, and builded 
strange and fragile dreams among these glowing 
and ever-changing symphonies of light and color. 
The little boat has been a kingdom in a world of 
enchantment. The domes and vistas of a fairy- 
land have been visible from it. The Psalm of 
Life has seemed to float softly over the bosom 
of the river, and mingle with the harmonies of 
infinite hues in the heavens beyond. The lances 
of the departing sun have trailed over the waters, 
and dark purple shadows have gently crept into 
the landscape. Manifold voices are hushed, and 
the story of another day is told. 

[273] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Nature, seemingly jealous of other companion- 
ship, yields her spiritual treasures only to him who 
comes alone into her sweet solitudes. Before him 
who comes in reverence, the filmy veils are lifted, 
and the poetic soul is gently led into mystic paths 
beyond. 

In her great anthems of sublimity and power, 
she fills our hearts with awe, and appals us with 
our insignificance, but her soft lullabies, which 
we hear in the secluded places, are within the 
capacity of our emotions. It is here that she comes 
to us in her tenderness and beauty, and gently 
touches the finer chords of our being. 

One may stand upon a mountain-top and behold 
the splendors of awful immensities, but the imag- 
ination is soon lost in infinity, and only the atom 
on the rock remains. The music of the swaying 
rushes, the whispers among rippling waters and 
softly moving leaves, and the voices of the Little 
Things that sing around us, all come within the 
compass of our spiritual realm. It is with them 
that we must abide if we would find contentment 
of heart and soul. 

The love of moving water is one of our primal 

[274] 



THE WINDING RIVER 

instincts. The tired mind seeks it, and weary 
travelers on the deserts of life are sustained by 
the hope of living waters beyond. There are wind- 
ing rivers on which we may float in the world of 
our fancy, and it is on them that we may find 
peace when sorrows have afflicted us and our 
burdens have made scars. They may flow through 
lordly forests, and stately mansions and magic 
gardens may be reflected in their limpid tides. 
The songs of these rivers are the songs of the heart, 
and in them there is no note of triumph over the 
fallen, or despair of the stricken. They are songs 
of courageous life and melodies of the living 
things, but only those who listen may hear them. 
Sometimes, in faint half-heard tones from far 
away, we may imagine echoes from another world 
than ours, and, as we enter into the final gloom, 
these harmonies may become divine. In the darker 
recesses of our intellectual life we find shadows 
that never move. They seem to lie like black 
sinister bars across our mental paths. We know 
not what is beyond them, and we shrink from a 
nameless terror. Into these shadows our loved 
ones have gone. They have returned into the 

[275] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Elemental Mystery. Their voices have not come 
back to us, but their cadences may be in the sing- 
ing winds and amid the patter of the summer rain. 
Our Ship of Dreams can bear a wondrous cargo. 
We can sometimes see its mirage in the still skies 
beyond the winding rivers, though its sails and 
spars are far below the horizon's rim. We know 
that on it are those who beckon, and its wave-kissed 
prow is toward us. Frail though its timbers be, 
the years may bring it, but if it never comes, we 
have seen the picture, and new banners have been 
unfurled before it. 



[276] 




HE "WAITED UNTIL HE SAW HIS STAR COME OVER THE 
HORIZON IN THE PATH OF THE YOUNG MOON" 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE RED ARROW 

WHILE merciless masters have driven 
the red man from the dune country, 
indelible impressions of his race re- 
main. His nomenclature is on the maps, and the 
lakes, rivers, and streams carry names that were 
precious to his people. His mythology still en- 
velops the region with a halo of romance and 
fable. 

The dust of his forefathers has mingled with 
the hills, and time has obliterated nearly every 
material trace of him, except those among the im- 
perishable stones. The debris of the little quarries 
is still visible on small promontories, and in the 
depressions along the ridges, where the pines have 
held the soil against the action of the wind and 
rain. Here we find innumerable chips and frag- 
ments of broken stones, left by the workers, who 
fashioned the implements of war and peace on 
these sequestered spots. 

[279] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Occasionally an imperfect or unfinished arrow 
or spear-head appears among the refuse, which 
the patient artificer discarded. Many perfect 
specimens are found, but these are seldom dis- 
covered near the sites of the rude workshops. 
They are uncovered by the shifting sands in the 
"blow outs," where the winds eddy on the sides 
of hills that may have held their secrets for 
centuries, and turned up out of the fertile soil in 
the back country, by the plowshares of a race 
that carried the bitter cup of affliction to the 
aborigine. 

The little flakes of flint may be scattered over 
a space forty or fifty feet across, and many thou- 
sands of perfect points may have gone forth from 
it, as messages of death to the hearts of enemies, 
or to pierce the quivering flesh of the innocent. 

The refined ingenuity of man has ever been 
applied to things that kill. The art of annihila- 
tion has attracted some of the dominant intellects 
of mankind, and the extinction of life has been 
the industry of millions since human history 
began. 

The feathered shaft of the savage, and the steel 

[280] 



THE RED ARROW 

shell of the white man, go upon the same errand, 
and they both leave the same dark stain upon the 
green earth. The children of men, in all ages, 
have been taught that war is the only path to glory. 

Under His quiet skies the living things must 
die, because they live. The Great Riddle awaits 
solution beyond the confines of our philosophy, 
and in the midst of our speculative wanderings, 
we become dust. Theology is as helpless before 
a burial mound in the wilderness, as beside the 
gilded tomb of a prince of the church. 

The spiritual needs of the primitive savage were 
administered by his tribal gods, and the spirits 
of his mythology. In his child-like faith he be- 
lieved the favor of a Great Spirit to be in the 
sunshine, and that omnipotent wrath was thun- 
dered in the storms. His good manitous presided 
over his fortunes in life, and gently led him into 
fabled hunting grounds beyond the grave. 

He was a fatalist, and not being civilized, his 
theology was imperfect. 

Civilization approached him with a Bible in 
one hand and a bottle in the other, and the decay 
of his race began. The finger of fate had touched 

[281] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

him, and the last heart-broken remnants of once 
happy and powerful tribes were tied and led away 
by benign and Christian soldiers. They carried 
crushed spirits and shattered lives to an alien soil, 
which an all-wise conqueror had selected for them, 
leaving their burned homes, and the bones of those 
they loved, in the land of their birth. 

The moralist finds abundant food for reflection 
in the sufferings of the weak, at the hands of the 
strong, and the triumph of might over helpless- 
ness, but the Indian interfered with enlightened 
selfishness and he perished. 

The record of the expatriation and the practical 
extinction of the Pottawatomies, who lived in this 
region, is written upon dark pages of our history, 
but perhaps they had no rights as living creatures 
that an enlightened government was bound to 
respect. 

When the fog rolls in from the distant waters, 
and steals through the pines, wraith-like forms 
of a forgotten race seem to haunt the scenes of 
by-gone years. We may imagine the march of 
phantom throngs through the trees, to meet silent 
battalions beyond the hills. The sands seem to 

[282] 



THE RED ARROW 

yield to the folds of a gray mantle that is laid 
upon them, and retreat into obscurity. 

When the night shadows come into the dune 
country, the spell of mystery and poetry comes 
with them. The sorcery of the dark places leads 
us into a land of dreams and unreality. 

Out on the tremulous surface of the lake, we 
may fancy the lifting of silvery paddles in the 
path of the moon's reflections, and the furtive 
movement across the bar of light, of mystic shapes 
in phantom canoes. 

Mingled with the lispings of the little waves, 
we may hear ghostly prows touch the sand, and 
see spectral figures file into the hills. The faint 
echoes of strokes upon flint come out of the 
shadows. 

The spirits of an ancient race have gone to their 
quarries, for arrowheads and spears, for the un- 
seen battles with evil gods. 

Voices in the night wind recall them, and they 
go out into the purple mists, that come upon the 
face of the waters before the dawn. 

Sometimes among the silences, comes the beauti- 
ful dream form of Naeta, the Spirit of the Dunes, 

[283] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

who was once an Indian maiden with laughing 
eyes and raven hair. It was she who lured the 
soul of Taqua, a mighty warrior, who first saw 
her in the silver moonlight among the pines, in 
a far-ofif time, before the first legends of the people 
were told. 

Love stole into their lives and brought with him 
a train of sorrows, which, one by one, were laid 
upon aching hearts, until the burden became too 
heavy to bear. A dark shadow fell upon the little 
wigwam, and the world-old story of shattered 
faith, that sent two souls adrift, was told by the 
two trails that led from the ashes before the door. 

The heart of Taqua became black, and for many 
days and nights he sped over sandy hills, and along 
rocky shores, with the deadly gleam of revenge 
in his eyes, and the bitterness of hate in his breast. 

Once he sat brooding by the shore of the great 
lake, and saw a fragment of red flint, which the 
numberless waves had worn into the rude re- 
semblance of an arrow-head. He picked it out 
of the wet sand, and with patient skill, he fash- 
ioned it to a cutting point. He fastened it into 

[284] 



THE RED ARROW 

a shaft of ironwood, which he feathered with the 
pinions of a hawk. 

He then climbed to the top of a high promon- 
tory, and waited until he saw his star come over 
the horizon, in the path of the young moon. It 
was at this time that he could talk to Manabush, 
the hero god, who was the intermediary between 
the Indian and his manitous. 

When he was certain of the presence of Mana- 
bush, he held his red arrow before him — told the 
story of his wrongs — and consecrated the arrow 
to the heart of his enemy. When the dawn came, 
and Manabush was gone, he placed the arrow in 
his quiver, and began his march upon the path 
of vengeance. 

Through weary years he followed it, finding 
upon it many cross trails, and the footprints of 
those who had gone before, upon the same errand. 
The path led him into strange places, and through 
numberless dark defiles, into which the sunlight 
never came. 

It led him through lonesome loveless years, that 
marked his brow with wrinkled hate, and hard- 
ened the lines that are only curved by smiles. 

[285] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

Time finally bent the sinewy form, the springing 
strides became shorter, and their vigor became less. 
The frosts and sorrows of many winters had turned 
the dark locks white, when, at the end of one 
summer — just as the first leaves began to fall — he 
once more journeyed to the high rock to invoke 
the aid and counsel of the hero god. 

His dimmed eyes once more sought the star, and 
when he saw its light, he told Manabush the story 
of his fruitless quest. His tired limbs could no 
longer keep the trail, and his weary arms could no 
longer bend the bow to the arrow's length. 

Long he talked and meditated, and a voice 
seemed to come out of the darkness. It was a 
voice of sweetness and mercy — a voice of love and 
forgiveness — that told of the futility of hatred and 
revenge, which would be lost in the gloom of the 
Great Beyond, when the earth should know him 
no more. 

A new light burst upon him. He became glori- 
fied with a new thought. He resolved that he 
would no longer carry the red arrow in his quiver. 
He w^ould abandon the black and sinister trail 
which he had hoped to redden with the blood of 

[286] 



THE RED ARROW 

his enemy, and part with this evil thing that had 
mastered him. 

When the morning sun came over the hills, and 
bathed them in the radiance of a new day, he 
straightened his bent figure, and resolutely placed 
the red arrow in the bow. With a new strength, 
he drew the shaft to its full length, and, with a 
loud twang, the red arrow sang in the morning air. 

His poor old eyes could follow it only a little 
way, but he saw it strike the shining bark of a 
little tree. With a sad smile — the first of many 
years — he saw the leaves of the little tree turn red. 

He looked for the arrow in vain. It had gone 
on through the forest, and at night he found that 
it had struck many trees, for their leaves were also 
red. The next day he traveled on, and the scarlet 
leaves were ever before his eyes. 

At last, tired and footsore, he laid down and 
slept. There came to him in his dreams the beauti- 
ful Naeta. She told him of a long journey through 
the years; how she had wearily sought him, how 
she had patiently followed the tangled threads of 
fate, hoping to find the end, where the sun might 

[287] 



THE DUNE COUNTRY 

shine, without bitterness, without hatred — with 
love and repentance in her heart. 

Her feet had faltered on her weary way, and 
many times she had grasped the little trees to 
keep from falling. 

He awoke and looked again into the forest. He 
saw that these little trees were touched with gold. 

He then closed his eyes in eternal sleep, and the 
Indian Summer had come upon the land. 

The red arrow and the repentant hand had 
transfigured the hills, and the glory of the Divine 
was upon them. 

THE END 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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